tone, that seemed to come from a
tomb, as he passed down.

And Maria, glad to escape him, fled up-stairs, and never paused until
she had found refuge in Mrs. L'Oiseau's room.

One hour after that, Professor Grimshaw, closely enveloped in an ample
cloak, left Luckenough, and took the road to the beach.

CHAPTER XXIV.

NIGHT AND STORM.

The heavens were growing very dark; the wind was rising and driving
black clouds athwart the sky; the atmosphere was becoming piercingly
cold; the snow, that during the middle of the day had thawed, was
freezing hard. Yet Marian hurried fearlessly and gayly on over the
rugged and slippery stubble fields that lay between the cottage and the
beach. A rapid walk of fifteen minutes brought her down to the water's
edge. But it was now quite dark. Nothing could be more deserted, lonely
and desolate than the aspect of this place. From her feet the black
waters spread outward, till their utmost boundaries were lost among the
blacker vapors of the distant horizon. Afar off a sail, dimly seen or
guessed at, glided ghost-like through the shadows. Landward, the
boundaries of field and forest, hill and vale, were all blended, fused,
in murky obscurity. Heavenward, the lowering sky was darkened by wild,
scudding, black clouds, driven by the wind, through which the young moon
seemed plunging and hiding as in terror. The tide was coming in, and the
waves surged heavily with a deep moan upon the beach. Not a sound was
heard except the dull, monotonous moan of the sea, and the fitful,
hollow wail of the wind. The character of the scene was in the last
degree wild, dreary, gloomy and fearful. Not so, however, it seemed to
Marian, who, filled with happy, generous and tumultuous thoughts, was
scarcely conscious of the gathering darkness and the lowering storm, as
she walked up and down upon the beach, listening and waiting. She
wondered that Thurston had not been there ready to receive her; but this
thought gave her little uneasiness; it was nearly lost, as the storm and
darkness also were, in the brightness and gladness of her own loving,
generous emotions. There was no room in her heart for doubt or trouble.
If the thought of the morning's conversation and of Angelica entered her
mind, it was only to be soon dismissed with fair construction and
cheerful hope. And then she pictured to herself the surprise, the
pleasure of Thurston, when he should hear of the accession of fortune
which should se