long walk. They took one or two turns down this, but saw not those for
whom they were in search.

"If you do not dislike leaving this busy scene," said Sir Henry, "I
think we shall have a better chance of meeting Emily and Clarendon, if
we turn down one of these winding paths."

They turned to their left, and walked on. How beautiful was that night!
Its calm tranquillity, as they receded from the giddy throng, could not
but subdue them. We have said that the moon was not riding the heavens
in her full robe of majesty, nor was there a sombre darkness. The purple
vault was spangled thick with stars; and there reigned that dubious,
glimmering light, by which you can note a face, but not mark its blush.
The walks wound fantastically. They were lit by festoons of coloured
lamps, attached to the neighbouring trees, so as to resemble the pendent
grape-clusters, that the traveller meets with just previous to the
Bolognese vintage. Occasionally, a path would be encountered where no
light met the eye save that of the prying stars overhead. In the
distant vista, might be seen a part of the crowded promenade, where
music held its court; whilst at intervals, a voice's swell or guitar's
tinkle would be borne on the ear. There was the hum of men, too--the
laugh of the idlers without the sanctum, as they indulged in the
delights of the mischievous fire-ball--and the sudden whizz, followed by
an upward glare of light, as a rocket shot into the air. But the hour,
and the nameless feeling that hour invoked, brought with them a subduing
influence, which overpowered these intruding sounds, attuning the heart
to love and praise. They paced the walk in mutual and embarrassed
silence. Sir Henry's thoughts would at one time revert to his brother,
and at another to that parting, which the morrow would assuredly bring
with it. He was lost in reverie, and almost forgot who it was that leant