few large hailstones falling, gave notice of an approaching storm.

"I told you we should not get safely through the day," said George
Herbert. "Now we are in for it."

"George, that is a vulgar expression," said Lord Doningdale, buttoning
up his coat. While he spoke, a vivid flash of lightning darted across
their very path, and the sky grew darker and darker.

"We may as well rest at the inn," said Maltravers: "the storm is coming
on apace, and Madame de Ventadour--"

"You are right," interrupted Lord Doningdale; and he put his horse into
a canter.

They were soon at the door of the old hotel. Bells rang dogs
barked--hostlers ran. A plain, dark, travelling post-chariot was before
the inn-door; and, roused perhaps by the noise below, a lady in the
"first-floor front, No. 2," came to the window. This lady owned the
travelling-carriage, and was at this time alone in that apartment. As
she looked carelessly at the party, her eyes rested on one form--she
turned pale, uttered a faint cry, and fell senseless on the floor.

Meanwhile, Lord Doningdale and his guests were shown into the room next
to that tenanted by the lady. Properly speaking, both the rooms made
one long apartment for balls and county meetings, and the division was
formed by a thin partition, removable at pleasure. The hail now came on
fast and heavy, the trees groaned, the thunder roared; and in the large,
dreary room there was a palpable and oppressive sense of coldness and
discomfort. Valerie shivered--a fire was lighted--and the Frenchwoman