A gentle rain fell on the turf after it was laid. This was the beginning of a long and dreary autumnal storm, a deferred “equinoctial,” as many considered it. The mountain streams were all swollen and turbulent, and the steep declivities were furrowed in every direction by new channels. It made the house seem doubly desolate to hear the wind howling and the rain beating upon the roofs. The poor relation who was staying at the house would insist on Helen's remaining a few days: Old Sophy was in such a condition, that it kept her in continual anxiety, and there were many cares which Helen could take off from her. The old black woman's life was buried in her darling's grave. She did nothing but moan and lament for her. At night she was restless, and would get up and wander to Elsie's apartment and look for her and call her by name. At other times she would lie awake and listen to the wind and the rain,--sometimes with such a wild look upon her face, and with such sudden starts and exclamations, that it seemed as if she heard spirit-voices and were answering the whispers of unseen visitants. With all this were mingled hints of her old superstition,--forebodings of something fearful about to happen,--perhaps the great final catastrophe of all things, according to the prediction current in the kitchens of Rockland. “Hark!” Old Sophy would say,--“don' you hear th' crackin' 'n' th' snappin' up in Th' Mountain, 'n' th' rollin' o' th' big stones? The' 's somethin' stirrin' among th' rocks; I hear th' soun' of it in th' night, when th' wind has stopped blowin'. Oh, stay by me a little while, Miss Darlin'! stay by me! for it's th' Las' Day, maybe, that's close on us, 'n' I feel as if I could n' meet th' Lord all alone!” It was curious,--but Helen did certainly recognize sounds, during the lull of the storm, which were not of falling rain or running streams,--short snapping sounds, as of tense cords breaking,--long uneven sounds, as of masses rolling down steep declivities. But the morning came as usual; and as the others said nothing of these singular noises, Helen did not think it necessary to speak of them. All day long she and the humble relative of Elsie's mother, who had appeared as poor relations are wont to in the great prises of life, were busy in arranging the disordered house, and looking over the various objects which Elsie's singular tastes had brought together, to dispose of them as her father might direct. They all met together at the usual hour for tea. One of the servants came in, looking very blank, and said to the poor relation, “The well is gone dry; we have nothing but rainwater.” Dudley Venner's countenance changed; he sprang to, his feet and went to--assure himself of the fact, and, if he could, of the reason of it. For a well to dry up during such a rain-storm was extraordinary,--it was ominous. He came back, looking very anxious.