"Caroline!" he exclaimed, in a tone of wonderment, as one who awakes from a deep sleep, "Caroline! why are we here? what means this disorder?" "You now speak," said she, "as did my Caspar," Caroline de Werner is in a mad-house near Vevay:--the man in black has not been seen since he disappeared from the ball room of Beau-Séjour:--my cousin, Caspar von Hazenfeldt, took to wandering alone over the Swiss mountains; and before three months had elapsed, from the time he met _the old gentleman_, was buried in the fall of an avalanche, near the pass of the Gemmi. * * * * * Supper was not ready as the student finished this story; and George proposed a stroll. The change from the heated room to the margin of the lake, was a most refreshing one. As the brothers silently gazed upwards, a young lad approached, and accosted them. "Gentlemen! I have seen the horses fed, and they are now lying down." "Have you?" said Delmé, drily. "A very fine night! gentlemen! Perhaps you have heard of the famous echo, on the other side of the lake. It will be a good hour, I am sure, before your supper is ready. My boat lies under that old tree. If you like it, I will loose the chain, and row you over." The brothers acquiesced. They were just in the frame of mind for an unforeseen excursion. The motion of the boat, too, would be easy for George, and he might there unrestrainedly give way to his excited feelings, or commune ungazed on, with the current of his thoughts. A thin crescent of a moon had risen. It was silvering the tops of the overhanging boughs, and was quiveringly mirrored on the light ripple. George leant against the side of the boat, and listened to the liquid music, as the broad paddle threw back the resisting waters. How soothing is the hour of night to the wounded spirit! The obscurity which shrouds nature, seems to veil even man's woes--the harsh outline of his sufferings is discerned no more. Grief takes the place of despair--pensive melancholy of sorrow. As we gaze around, and feel the chill air damp each ringlet on the pallid brow; know that _that_ hour hath cast a shade on each inanimate thing around us; we feel resigned to our bereavements, and confess, in our heart's humility, that no changes _should_ overwhelm, and that no grief _should_ awaken repinings. To many a bruised and stricken spirit, night imparts a grateful balm. In the morning, the feelings are too fresh;--oblivion is exchanged for conscious suffering;--the merriment of the feathered songsters seems to us as a taunt;--our sympathies are not with waking nature. The glare and splendour of noon, bid us recal _our_ hopes, and their signal overthrow. The zenith of day's lustre meets us as a wilful mockery.