"The waves of a mighty sorrow Have whelmed the pearl of my life; And there cometh to me no morrow Shall solace this desolate strife. * * * * * "Gone are the last faint flashes, Set in the sun of my years, And over a few poor ashes I sit in darkness and tears."--GERALD MASSEY. All night the rain has fallen unceasingly; now the sun shines forth again, as though forgetting that excessive moisture has inundated the quiet uncomplaining earth. The "windy night" has not produced a "rainy morrow;" on the contrary, the world seems athirst for drink again, and is looking pale and languid because it comes not. "Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around: Full swell the woods." Everything is richer for the welcome drops that fell last night. "The very earth, the steamy air, is all with fragrance rife;" the flowers lift up their heads and fling their perfume broadcast upon the flying wind; "And that same dew, which sometime within buds Was wont to swell, like round and Orientpearls, Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes, Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail." Georgie, with scarcely any heart to see their beauty, passes by them, and walks on until she reaches that part of Hythe wood that adjoins their own. As she passes them, the gentle deer raise their heads and sniff at her, and, with their wild eyes, entreat her to go by and take no notice of them. Autumn, with his "gold hand," is "Gilding the falling leaf, Bringing up winter to fulfil the year, Bearing upon his back the ripéd sheaf." All nature seems lovely, and, in coloring, intense. To look upon it is to have one's heart widen and grow stronger and greater as its divinity fills one's soul to overflowing. Yet to Georgie the hour gives no joy: with lowered head and dejected mien she goes, scarce heeding the glowing tints that meet her on every side. It is as though she tells herself the world's beauty can avail her nothing, as, be the day "Foul, or even fair, Methinks her hearte's joy is stainéd with some care." Crossing a little brook that is babbling merrily, she enters the land of Hythe; and, as she turns a corner (all rock, and covered with quaint ferns and tender mosses), she comes face to face with an old man, tall and lean, who is standing by a pool, planted by nature in a piece of granite. He is not altogether unknown to her. At church she has seen him twice, and once in the village, though she has never been introduced to him, has never interchanged a single word with him: it is Lord Sartoris. He gazes at her intently. Perhaps he too knows who she is, but, if so, he makes no sign. At last, unable to bear the silence any longer, she says, naïvely and very gently,-- "I thought you were in Paris." At this extraordinary remark from a woman he has never spoken to before, Sartoris lifts his brows, and regards her, if possibly, more curiously.