hunderous gray cloud that, rising
from the sea, now spreads itself o'er hill and vale. The light has died
out of the sky; dull muttering sounds come rumbling down from the
distant mountains. The vast expanse of barren bog upon the left has
become almost obscure. Here and there a glint of its watery wastes may
be seen, but indistinctly, giving the eye a mournful impression of
"lands forlorn."

A strange hot quiet seems to have fallen upon the trembling earth.

"We often see, against some storm.
A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,
The bold wind speechless, and the orb below
Is hushed as death."

Just now that "boding silence reigns." A sense of fear falls on Joyce,
she scarcely knows why, as her companion, with a quick lash of the whip,
urges the horse up the steep hill. They are still several miles from
their destination, and, though it is only four o'clock, it is no longer
day. The heavens are black as ink, the trees are shivering in expectant
misery.

"What is it?" says Joyce, and even as she asks the question it is
answered. The storm is upon them in all its fury. All at once, without
an instant's warning, a violent downpour of rain comes from the bursting
clouds, threatening to deluge them.

"We are in for it," says Beauclerk in a sharp, short tone, so unlike his
usual dulcet accents that even now, in her sudden discomfort, it
startles her. The rain is descending in torrents, a wild wind has
arisen. The light has faded, and now the day resembles nothing so much
as the dull beginning of a winter's night.

"Have you any idea where we are?" asks Beauclerk presently.

"None. You know I told you I had never been here before. But you--you
must have some knowledge of it."

"How should I? These detestable Irish isolations are as yet unknown
paths to me."

"But I thought you said--you gave me the impression that you knew
Connor's Cross."

"I regret it if I did," shortly. The rain is running down his neck by
this time, leaving a cold, drenched collar to add zest to his rising ill
temper. "I had heard of Connor's Cross. I never saw it. I devoutly
hope," with a snarl, "I never shall."

"I don't think you are likely to," says Joyce, whose own temper is
beginning to be ruffled.

"Well, this is a sell," says Beauclerk. He is buttoning up a heavy
ulster round his handsome form. He is very particular about the
fastening of the last button--that one that goes under the chin--and
having sat