IT was a smaller party than usual the next day, consisting only of Lord Doningdale, his son George Herbert, Valerie and Ernest. They were returning from the ruins, and the sun, now gradually approaching the west, threw its slant rays over the gardens and houses of a small, picturesque town, or, perhaps, rather village, on the high North Road. It is one of the prettiest places in England, that town or village, and boasts an excellent old-fashioned inn, with a large and quaint pleasure-garden. It was through the long and straggling street that our little party slowly rode, when the sky became suddenly overcast, and, a few large hailstones falling, gave notice of an approaching storm. "I told you we should not get safely through the day," said George Herbert. "Now we are in for it." "George, that is a vulgar expression," said Lord Doningdale, buttoning up his coat. While he spoke, a vivid flash of lightning darted across their very path, and the sky grew darker and darker. "We may as well rest at the inn," said Maltravers: "the storm is coming on apace, and Madame de Ventadour--" "You are right," interrupted Lord Doningdale; and he put his horse into a canter. They were soon at the door of the old hotel. Bells rang dogs barked--hostlers ran. A plain, dark, travelling post-chariot was before the inn-door; and, roused perhaps by the noise below, a lady in the "first-floor front, No. 2," came to the window. This lady owned the travelling-carriage, and was at this time alone in that apartment. As she looked carelessly at the party, her eyes rested on one form--she turned pale, uttered a faint cry, and fell senseless on the floor. Meanwhile, Lord Doningdale and his guests were shown into the room next to that tenanted by the lady. Properly speaking, both the rooms made one long apartment for balls and county meetings, and the division was formed by a thin partition, removable at pleasure. The hail now came on fast and heavy, the trees groaned, the thunder roared; and in the large, dreary room there was a palpable and oppressive sense of coldness and discomfort. Valerie shivered--a fire was lighted--and the Frenchwoman drew near to it. "You are wet, my dear lady," said Lord Doningdale. "You should take off that close habit, and have it dried." "Oh, no; what matters it?" said Valerie bitterly, and almost rudely. "It matters everything," said Ernest; "pray be ruled." "And do you care for me?" murmured Valerie. "Can you ask that question?" replied Ernest, in the same tone, and with affectionate and friendly warmth.