lime-trees overhead; and, for a moment lights up the tumbling waves, that are white with foam. Soon the rain comes down in a perfect sheet, and even penetrates the dense mass of foliage above me. It is, indeed, a rough night for a vigil. But hark! the carriage-wheels! I run out into the North-road, and meet—the blinding, hissing rain. I listen again: there is no sound of carriage; it was but the rattling rumble of the thunder.
It must be some time after midnight; but the violence of the storm overpowers the sound of the church clock. I keep under the half-shelter of the dripping trees, and twice or thrice I run forth as before to meet the carriage, but with no better success; the wind and the rain together always deceive me.
At length the storm subsides, and the thunder dies away in distant peals. I shake the wet off me like a Newfoundland dog coming out of the water. There is a grateful sense of coolness all around; the thirsty earth has drunk in the refreshing moisture; the July storm is over. Soon the moon shines out, ghastly and pale, through the dark, driving clouds; and only the raindrops patter from the leaves. I light a fresh cigar and wait till two o'clock strikes. No Captain Alvanley! So I walk down the avenue towards the hotel. Faithful Amy! there she is at her open window, on the watch, just as she was last night. She still looks very pale and sad, and she is evidently listening intently for the sound of the carriage wheels. As soon as she sees me she bends and greets me as an old friend. I have provided myself with a sheet of paper, and I scribble on it in large letters, "The violence of the storm must have delayed him. No horses could face such a tempest. By this time he is on his road." I throw this up to her, and she
