to call him back. The effort woke her. She
lay trembling, with tears of agitation pouring from her eyes, while the
storm which had mingled with her dream raged furiously round the
Cottage.

Morning came at last, dim and dreary. The wind subsided at dawn, but the
sky was full of torn and jagged clouds, carried hither and thither by
its varying currents. All over the ground lay broken flowers and sprays
torn from the trees, the vine had been loosened in several places from
its fastenings and hung disconsolately over the verandah--all looked
ravaged and desolate, as Lucia pressed her hot cheek against the
rain-covered window, and tried to shake off the misery--still new to
her--which belongs to the early morning after a restless, fevered night.
But as the sun rose bright and warm, her spirits naturally revived; she
dressed early, and went out into the garden, intent upon remedying as
far as possible the mischief that had been done, before her mother
should see it; and accustomed as she was to work among her much-beloved
plants, the task was soon making quick progress. But among her roses,
the most valued of all her flowers, a new discouragement awaited her.
One beautiful tree, the finest of all, which yesterday had been splendid
in the glory of its late blossoms, had been torn up by the wind, and
flung down battered and half covered with sand at a little distance from
the bed where it had grown. The sight of this misfortune seemed to Lucia
almost more than she could bear; she sat down upon a garden-seat close
by, and looked at her poor rose-tree as if its fate were to be a type of
her own. She recollected a thousand trifles connected with it; how she
had disputed with Mr. Percy about its beauty, arguing that it was less
perfect than some others, because he had said it was more so; she
remembered how from that very tree she had gathered a blossom for him
the first day he came to the Cottage. Then, in her fanciful mood, she
reproached herself for letting her unfortunate favourite speak to her
only of him, and forgetting that it was Maurice who had obtained it for
her, who had planted it, and would be sorry for its destruction. She
rose, and tried to lift the broken tree; but as she leaned over it,
Maurice himself passed through the wicket, and came towards her. She
turned to meet him as if it were quite natural that he should come just
then.

"Oh, Maurice, look! I am so sorry."

"Your pet rose-tree? But perhaps it will re