“To-morrow night; well then, go home, and I will come at noon, and see what is to be done. Good woman, you have (innocently I grant) spoiled my supper, for who can eat with the smell of brimstone. I declare that that goose now appears to me to have hoofs, instead of claws. Mary, give Mrs. Chiselwig a compliment from Rehoboam, to cheer her on her way home, through the storm. You’ll find Gideon, I hope, there before you, and prove that all your fears have been the baby thoughts of a horrid dream. May you long live for each other,--and, Nelly, you will shew, by your future course of conduct, I trust, that you are willing to atone for all the domestic misery which you confess to have brought upon honest Gideon. Nay, drink it off, Mrs. Chiselwig; it is warmer than snow, eh?” Nelly, after many thanks to the vicar, emptied the glass, and once more braved the storm. The walls of the houses were now completely drifted, and not a footstep had left its trace on the snow-covered streets. What a lonely feeling is over the soul, when nothing is heard but the deep gust of the wind, driving the storm before, around, and against us, and when all objects are being wrapped in winter’s white raiment. For us, in youth, there never was a greater luxury, than to wander over the dreary mountain and vale, with the snow pelting on our face, as it was turned upwards, when not a glimpse of the sky could meet it; and then, after having become thoroughly exhausted, to enter some natural cave, or sheepfold, on the waste, and there seated, gaze around upon bush, bank, and hill, cottages, and woods, all thatched with white: and even yet, by night, has the old man taken his staff, and tottered to the hall door, to stand without the threshold, devoutly uncovering his head, white as winter’s after December has smoothed it, and looked up, while the snow fell, sweet and grateful as the kisses of his only child, upon his dim eyes, and feverish forehead,--and as he entered the room, has forbidden Jane to wipe away the flakes, for he wished them gently to weep themselves to death, on his face, in all their virgin sorrow. Rain, we love thee not, even in thy spring showers, and must canopy our head to protect it from thy salutations: but Snow, we uncover it for thy kisses, so pure and soothing. How beautiful art thou, when the messenger of death; and a holier and a whiter bed dost thou afford the poor traveller, than could be smoothed and softened by the hand of his young and beloved wife, in his own happy abode, where, true as her love in difficulty and trial, burns the signal of her expectations, through the small lattice, during the long night, and often trimmed in vain! How gently is he hushed to sleep, amidst the wreathes of thy purity, unconscious of the blast. Not a limb aches, and heaven, likewise, bids thee be thy lover’s shroud and tomb!