At the decline of day she quitted her chamber to enjoy the sweet evening hour, but strayed no further than an avenue near the abbey, which fronted the west. She read a little; but finding it impossible any longer to abstract her attention from the scene around; she closed the book, and yielded to the sweet complacent melancholy which the hour inspired. The air was still; the sun sinking below the distant hill, spread a purple glow over the landscape, and touched the forest glades with softer light. A dewy freshness was diffused upon the air. As the sun descended, the dusk came silently on, and the scene assumed a solemn grandeur. As she mused, she recollected and repeated the following stanzas: NIGHT. Now Evening fades! her pensive step retires, And Night leads on the dews and shadowy hours: Her awful pomp of planetary fires, And all her train of visionary powers. _These_ paint with fleeting shapes the dream of sleep, _These_ swell the waking soul with pleasing dread; _These_ through the glooms in forms terrific sweep, And rouse the thrilling horrors of the dead! Queen of the solemn thought--mysterious Night! Whose step is darkness, and whose voice is fear! Thy shades I welcome with severe delight, And hail thy hollow gales, that sigh so drear! When wrapt in clouds, and riding in the blast, Thou roll'st the storm along the sounding shore, I love to watch the whelming billows cast On rocks below, and listen to the roar. Thy milder terrors, Night, I frequent woo Thy silent lightnings, and thy meteors' glare, Thy northern fires, bright with ensanguine hue, That light in heaven's high vault the fervid air. But chief I love thee, when thy hold car Sheds through the fleecy clouds a trembling gleam, And shows the misty mountain from afar, The nearer forest, and the valley's stream: And nameless objects in the vale below, That, floating dimly to the musing eye, Assume, at Fancy's touch, fantastic show, And raise her sweet romantic visions high. Then let me stand amidst thy glooms profound, On some wide woody steep, and hear the breeze That swells in mournful melody around, And faintly dies upon the distant trees. What melancholy charm steals o'er the mind! What hallow'd tears the rising rapture greet! While many a viewless spirit in the wind Sighs to the lonely hour in accents sweet! Ah! who the dear illusions pleased would yield, Which Fancy wakes from silence and from shades, For all the sober forms of Truth reveal'd, For all the scenes that Day's bright eye pervades! On her return to the abbey she was joined by Louis, who, after some conversation, said, I am much grieved by the scene to which I was witness this morning, and have longed for an opportunity of telling you so. My mother's behaviour is too mysterious to be accounted for, but it is not difficult to perceive she labours under some mistake. What I have to request is, that whenever I can be of service to you, you will command me.