ind, and refused to be evicted. The scene
kept presenting itself in all its details again and again, and finally
he jumped to his feet in disgust and determined to go to the long
gallery which overhung the sea, and watch the storm. Rhyd-Alwyn was
built on a steep cliff directly on the coast, and exposed to all the
fury of the elements. In times of storm, and when the waves were high,
the spray flew up against the lower windows.

He left his room and went down the wide hall, then turned into a
corridor, which terminated in a gallery that had been built as a sort
of observatory. The gallery was long and very narrow, and the floor
was bare. But there were seats under the windows, and on a table were
a number of books; it was a place Dartmouth and Weir were very fond of
when it was not too cold.

It was a clear, moonlit night, in spite of the storm. There was no
rain; it was simply a battle of wind and waves. Dartmouth stood at one
of the windows and looked out over the angry waters. The billows were
piling one above the other, black, foam-crested, raging like wild
animals beneath the lash of the shrieking wind. Moon and stars gazed
down calmly, almost wonderingly, holding their unperturbed watch
over the war below. Sublime, forceful, the sight suited the somewhat
excited condition of Dartmouth's mind. Moreover, he was beginning to
feel that one of his moods was insidiously creeping upon him: not an
attack like the last, but a general feeling of melancholy. If he could
only put that wonderful scene before him into verse, what a solace
and distraction the doing of it would be! He could forget--he pulled
himself together with something like terror. In another moment there
would be a repetition of that night in Paris. The best thing he could
do was to go back to his room and take an anodyne.

He turned to leave the gallery, but as he did so he paused suddenly.
Far down, at the other end, something was slowly coming toward him.
The gallery was very long and ill-lighted by the narrow, infrequent
windows, and he could not distinguish whom it was. He stood, however,
involuntarily waiting for it to approach him. But how slowly it came,
as one groping or one walking in a dream! Then, as it gradually
neared him, he saw that it was a woman, dimly outlined, but still
unmistakably a woman. He spoke, but there was no answer, nothing but
the echo of his voice through the gallery. Someone trying to play a
practical joke upon him! Perhap