catches it as nimbly as a cricketer. It seems to console her; so again I return to my post, or, to speak correctly, to my mile-stone; for I take my seat thereon, and smoke placidly. I rather miss Trap, for he was a companion; but I know that Amy is sharing my vigil; so what more can I desire?
Three o'clock, and still no Captain Alvanley. This is getting strange. Can he have played her false? I will go and take a quiet look at Amy. She is still at the window—still gazing out anxiously towards the North-road, with a sad, sad face. I have not the heart to go towards her; for what can I say?
Another hour passes slowly and wearily, and no sight or sound of carriage. Surely Amy could not have made any mistake as to the night? It is not probable; but I will go and ask her. She is at her open window; but clouds have floated before the moon, and it would be impossible for her to read anything that I may write. I, therefore, essay to speak to her. She leans forward out of the window and we converse in whispers. "Are you quite sure that he fixed last night?" I ask.
"Quite sure," she answers; "he mentioned the night and the hour. I could not be mistaken."
"Perhaps he has not been able to leave his regiment; perhaps it has been called out by some sudden riot; there may be a hundred reasons why he cannot come" (I could not think of them!) "and, of course, he could not write to you. But do cheer up and take courage" (for tears were beginning to fall); "I will watch again to-morrow night—and—"
And our tête-à-tête is suddenly brought to an end by the appearance of Lady Glenarvon, attired, Lady Macbeth-like, in her robe-de-chambre and bonnet de nuit.
