We went back to the parlor and passed a merry evening. A touch of chagrin, a fear that we should suspect how deeply she was disappointed, caused Eleanor to appear in unusually high spirits. She sung whatever I asked of her; she played some delicious music; she parried the wit of others with keener and brighter repartee; the roses bloomed on her cheeks, the stars rose in her eyes. It was not an altogether happy excitement; I knew that pride and loneliness were at the bottom of it; but it made her brilliantly beautiful. I wondered what Moreland would feel to see her so lovely--I almost regretted that he was not there. James, too, was in an exultant mood. It was late when we retired. I was in a state of mental activity which kept me awake for hours after. I never heard it rain as it did that night--the water seemed to come down in solid masses--and, occasionally, the wind shook the strong mansion as if it were a child. I could not sleep. There was something awful in the storm. If I had had a touch of superstition about me, I should have said that spirits were abroad. A healthy man, of a somewhat vivid imagination, but without nervousness, unknowing bodily fear, I was still affected strangely. I shuddered in my soft bed; the wild shriek of the locomotive lingered in my ears; _something besides rain seemed beating at the windows_. Ah, my God! I knew afterward what it was. It was a human soul, disembodied, lingering about the place on earth most dear to it. The rest of the household slept well, so far as I could judge, by its silence and deep repose. Toward morning I fell asleep; when I awoke the rain was over; the sun shone brightly; the ground was covered with gay autumn leaves shaken down by the wind and rain; the day promised well. I shook off the impressions of the darkness, dressed myself quickly, for the breakfast-bell rung, and descending, joined the family of my host at the table. In the midst of our cheerful repast, the door-bell rung. Eleanor started; the thought that her lover might have stayed at the hotel adjoining the depot on account of the rain, must have crossed her mind, for a rapid blush rose to her cheeks, and she involuntarily put up a hand to the dark braids of her hair as if to give them a more graceful touch. The servant came in, saying that a man at the door wished to speak with Mr. Argyll and Mr. Redfield. "He says it's important, and can't wait, sir." We arose and went out into the hall, closing the door of the breakfast-room behind us. "I'm very sorry--I've got bad news--I hope you won't"--stammered the messenger, a servant from the hotel. "What is it?" demanded Mr. Argyll. "The young gentleman that comes here--Moreland's his name, I believe--was found dead on the road this morning." "Dead!" "They want you to come down to the inquest. They've got him in a room of our house. They think it's a fit--there's no marks of any thing."