That night was spent in travelling, and without any sleep. Neville saw the day break in melancholy guise, struggling with the clouds, with which a southeast wind veiled the sky. Nature looked bleak and desolate, even though she was still dressed in her summer garments. It was only the latter end of August, but so changeable is our climate, that the bright festive days which he had lately enjoyed in Sussex were already followed by chill and dreary precursors of the year's decline. Gerard reached Dromore at about noon. He learned that his father had arrived during the night--he had slept a few hours, but was already gone out; it appeared that he had ridden over to a neighbour, Mr. Ashley; for he had inquired if he were in the county, and had, with his groom, both on horseback, taken the road that led toward his house. Neville hastily took some refreshment, while he ordered a horse to be saddled. His heart led him to seek and view a spot which he had once before visited, and which seemed accurately described in Falkner's narrative. He left behind him the woods of Dromore, and the foldings of the green hills in which it was situated--he descended towards the barren, dreary shore--the roar of ocean soon met his ear, and he reached the waste sands that border that melancholy coast--he saw the line of sand-hills, which formed a sort of bulwark against the tide--he reached at length a rapid, yet shallow stream, which was but about twenty yards wide, flowing over a rough bottom of pebbles; the eye easily reached its utmost depth, it could not be more than two feet. Could that be the murderous, furious estuary in which his mother had been borne away? he looked across--there stood the hut--there the moss-grown, leafless oak, and gathered round it was a crowd of men. His father, and two or three other gentlemen on horseback, were stationed near--while some labourers were throwing up the sand beneath the withered trunk. When we have long thought of and grieved over an incident--if any outward object bring the image of our thoughts bodily before us, it is strange what an accession of emotion stirs the depths of the heart. For many hours Neville's mind had dwelt upon the scene in all its parts--the wild waste sea, dark and purple beneath the lowering clouds--the dreary extent of beach--the far, stupendous mountains, thrown up in sublime, irregular grandeur, with cloud-capped peaks, and vast gulfs between--a sort of Cyclopean screen to the noble landscape, which they encompassed with their wide majestic extent--his reflections had selected the smaller objects--the river, the hut, the monumental tree; and it seemed as if actual vision could not bring it home more truly; but when he actually beheld these objects, and the very motive of his coming was revealed, as it were, by the occupation of the men at work, his young heart, unhardened by many sufferings, sickened, the tears rushed into his eyes, and the words--"Oh my mother!" burst, from his lips.