thus seemingly disclaimed all comparison between Mr. Falkland and
herself, she probably cherished a confused feeling as if some event,
that was yet in the womb of fate, might reconcile things apparently the
most incompatible. Fraught with these prepossessions, the civilities
that had once or twice occurred in the bustle of a public circle, the
restoring her fan which she had dropped, or the disembarrassing her of
an empty tea-cup, made her heart palpitate, and gave birth to the
wildest chimeras in her deluded imagination.

About this time an event happened, that helped to give a precise
determination to the fluctuations of Miss Melville's mind. One evening,
a short time after the death of Mr. Clare, Mr. Falkland had been at the
house of his deceased friend in his quality of executor, and, by some
accidents of little intrinsic importance, had been detained three or
four hours later than he expected. He did not set out upon his return
till two o'clock in the morning. At this time, in a situation so remote
from the metropolis, every thing is as silent as it would be in a
region wholly uninhabited. The moon shone bright; and the objects around
being marked with strong variations of light and shade, gave a kind of
sacred solemnity to the scene. Mr. Falkland had taken Collins with him,
the business to be settled at Mr. Clare's being in some respects similar
to that to which this faithful domestic had been accustomed in the
routine of his ordinary service. They had entered into some
conversation, for Mr. Falkland was not then in the habit of obliging the
persons about him by formality and reserve to recollect who he was. The
attractive solemnity of the scene made him break off the talk somewhat
abruptly, that he might enjoy it without interruption. They had not
ridden far, before a hollow wind seemed to rise at a distance, and they
could hear the hoarse roarings of the sea. Presently the sky on one side
assumed the appearance of a reddish brown, and a sudden angle in the