On the morrow, to his dismay, the sky was dark, and chill winds were blowing. Spring, having thrust her sunny face in at the door too soon, had been frightened far away, and might never have been present, so different was to-day's world from yesterday's. Dick resolved, nevertheless, to make his usual voyage. Rain had already begun to fall on the agitated surface of the river, when he landed at the park. He hastened to the lodge and found it empty. How bleak and utterly forlorn the place now seemed! How disconsolate in heart was Dick! Well, he ought not to have expected her on such a day. He gazed with a heavy sigh at the spot where she usually sat. What was that white thing, lying under a pebble, on that very spot? Dick seized it eagerly, saw the name "Silvius" written on it, opened it out hastily with trembling fingers. It was indeed a note, written in a charming hand, and signed "Amaryllis." His disappointment turned to gladness,--for the first sight of the beloved's handwriting, addressed to oneself, is as good as an interview,--and he read: "For a few days I must be away, yet Silvius will come as usual to the lodge, will he not? On the day of her return, he will find Amaryllis waiting. Since I last saw Silvius I have been thinking. It is true, seven years is not a very long time!" One knows, without being told, what demonstrations Silvius made over this letter, how often he re-read it, what other things he did to it, and where he finally bestowed it as he returned to his boat to row back to St. Denis. He scarcely knew what he was doing, as he pulled his boat out into the current, or how disturbed the river was, how heavily the rain came down. So overjoyed was he by the promise contained in the last line of the letter, that he was not cognizant of outward circumstances until he was half-way between St. Ouen and St. Denis. Then he became aware of the work of wind and water. He saw, moreover, that the day was as dark as late evening, and that all signs were growing more threatening every minute. "The devil!" thought he. "This is not a time for taking chances, now that such prospects await me. I must guard my life and health, and achieve great things during those seven years." He therefore rowed to an old, abandoned landing, which led to a ruined garden, within whose crumbling walls stood a deserted house of rough gray stone. On Dick's first row up the river, he had been told by the boatman that this house had long been unoccupied. Making his boat fast to a wooden spile, Dick went through the half unhinged, half opened gate which was partly sunk into the earth, and up the weed-grown garden walk, to the house. The door yielded to his pressure, and he passed through a bare, dark, damp, mouldy corridor, into a room whose windows opened on the garden. Though otherwise empty, this room contained an old oak table, and several rough wooden chairs. Dick sat down and waited for the storm to abate.