THE sisters had sat for more than an hour in a thoughtful and unbroken silence. The afternoon was dark and sultry; and, from a huge mass of cloud, which lay heavily upon the horizon, came forth low, muttering sounds of thunder, and sharp, hissing breezes, which died as immediately as they were awakened.

"Do you know, sister," at length said Annabel, with an effort, "they talk of night as lonely and full of fear; but I would rather be left alone at the darkest hour of midnight in the most solitary place, than now, in this sweet, familiar chamber. I could look at that cloud, till the changing shapes into which it writhes itself make me positively terrified. See, it is now like a hearse, with its crown of dark plumes and tall mantled charioteer: and, look yonder-do you not see that skull-for it is a skull-peeping between those two huge folds of drapery? Heaven grant Herbert may reach us safe and sound!"

66

Why now, my little Annabel, what a fool has this love made of you!—a positive fool, and you the boldest

R

girl I ever knew only a twelvemonth ago! But every thing shall now pass free; and I will make him laugh with me at all our omens and portents to-morrow! A hearse indeed! Now I see a charming nodding grove of golden palm-trees; and your skull has turned itself into the very figure of the flying Cupid, whose image you admire so much. Rouse yourself, or you will have poor pale cheeks and heavy eyes to greet him withal when he does come. In five hours," and she turned as she spoke to an antique time-piece, "in five hours precisely from this time, he will be in this cham. ber, in this chair, and you the happiest of the happy."

As Ida spoke, a sudden and blinding tongue of lightning leaped from that portentous cloud, with a peal of thunder which shook the old mansion to its foundation. Both the girls turned deadly pale; for they cared more than is now esteemed discreet for omens, and fortune-tellings, and visions; and Sir Guy Courtenay, their father-unkind Fate had, in their infancy, deprived them of a mother's care-was himself accused in whispers of troubling himself too much about alchemy and magic and other dark sciences, such as are shunned by simple and pious men.

"Some woe is hanging over us, I am sure,' said Annabel, sinking to the floor in the terror of the moment, and leaning, half kneeling, against the knee of her fairer sister; "my dream last night, and this sudden answer to your hopeful words of comfort. . . . . I will go and pray, for my heart is oppressed, and very heavy."

"But you did not tell me before of this dream, Annabel. What was it, I pray you? Not that I fear or care or be-.. But strange things have come to pass, and who may be sure that good and evil spirits do not come and whisper in our ears what is about to happen when we lie asleep?"

"I did not tell you, my Ida, because I was sure you would laugh at me; but now it seems as if I must, whether I would or not. Santa Maria! how the sky darkens! and did you not see in yonder corner, therethere . . .

!

She stretched forth her arm almost convulsively as she spoke, and her eye fixed itself as firmly upon the dusky void of the part of the chamber towards which she pointed, as if, indeed, it had been visited by some fearful or unexpected object. Ida looked, once, twice, herself infected by the fears which possessed her sister; but it was all in vain-there was nothing.

66

"Well, I am foolish, I know," began Annabel, after a pause, during which her form relaxed from that strained attitude, and her eye from its wondering distension, "but it is all owing to my dream; and now, when I would tell it, I know not why, a chain seems on my tongue, and the wind-there again! how like a sigh it was that said 'Forbear!' but you shall hear it."

And she arose from her knees, and locked her sister's fine hand in her own, and continued thus:

"I was dreaming of my wedding night, Ida—I sup