mellow light from the evening sky; the trees were green, and still; but
the music of the blackbird and the thrush came sweetly from their
leafy branches. Henry Woodward had been listening to a rather lengthy
discussion upon the subject of the blood-shower, which, indeed, was the
topic of much conversation and great wonder throughout the whole parish.
His father, a Protestant gentleman, and with some portion of
education, although not much, was, nevertheless, deeply imbued with
the superstitions which prevailed around him, as, in fact, were most of
those who existed in his day; the very air which he breathed was rife
with them; but what puzzled him and his family most was the difficulty
which they found in shaping the prodigy into significance. Why should
it take place, and upon such an occasion, they could not for their
lives imagine. The only persons in the family who seemed altogether
indifferent to it were Woodward and his mother, both of whom treated it
with ridicule and contempt.

"It comes before some calamity," observed Mr. Lindsay.

"It comes before a fiddle-stick, Lindsay," replied his wife. "Calamity!
yes; perhaps you may have a headache to-morrow, for which the world must
be prepared by a storm of thunder and lightning, and a shower of blood.
The head that reels over night with an excess of wine and punch will
ache in the morning without a prodigy to foretell it."

"Say what you will," he replied, "I believe the devil had a hand in
it; and I tell you," he added, laughing, "that if you be advised by me,
you'll begin to prepare yourself--'a stitch in time saves nine,' you
know--so look sharp, I say."

"This, Harry," she said, addressing her son, "is the way your mother has