insects glided on the walls, no flies buzzed in the unwonted
lamplight, scarcely a spider slid down his damp and trailing
web,--all this seemed to enhance the mystery. The vacancy was
more dreary than desertion: it was something old which had never
been young. We found ourselves speaking in whispers; the children
kept close to their parents; we seemed to be chasing some awful
Silence from room to room; and the last apartment, the great
drawing-room, we really seemed loath to enter. The less the rest
of the house had to show, the more, it seemed, must be
concentrated there. Even as we entered, a blast of air from a
broken pane extinguished our last light, and it seemed to take
many minutes to rekindle it.

As it shone once more, a brilliant lightning-flash also swept
through the window, and flickered and flickered, as if it would
never have done. The eldest child suddenly screamed, and pointed
with her finger, first to one great window and then to its
opposite. My eyes instinctively followed the successive
directions; and the double glance gave me all I came to seek, and
more than all. Outside the western window lay Severance, his
white face against the pane, his eyes gazing across and past
us,--struck down doubtless by the fallen tree, which lay across
the piazza, and hid him from external view. Opposite him, and
seen through the eastern window, stood, statue-like, the hooded
figure, but with the great capote thrown back, showing a sad,
eager, girlish face, with dark eyes, and a good deal of black
hair,--one of those faces of peasant beauty such as America never
shows,--faces where ignorance is almost raised into refinement by
its childlike look. Contrasted with Severance's wild gaze, the
countenance wore an expression of pitying forgiveness, almost of