ll a few
days left of the honeymoon, of which they had spent the last half in
Canada, and on this May night they were journeying from Toronto along
the southern shore of Lake Ontario to the pleasant Canadian hotel which
overlooks the pageant of Niagara. They had left Toronto in bright
sunshine, but as they turned the corner of the lake westward, a white
fog had come creeping over the land as the sunset fell.

But the daylight was still strong, the fog thin; so that it appeared
rather as a veil of gold, amethyst, and opal, floating over the country,
now parting altogether, now blotting out the orchards and the fields.
And into the colour above melted the colour below. For the orchards that
cover the Hamilton district of Ontario were in bloom, and the snow of
the pear-trees, the flush of the peach-blossom broke everywhere through
the warm cloud of pearly mist; while, just as Mrs. Boyson spoke, the
train had come in sight of the long flashing line of the Welland Canal,
which wound its way, outlined by huge electric lamps, through the sunset
and the fog, till the lights died in that northern distance where
stretched the invisible shore of the great lake. The glittering
waterway, speaking of the labour and commerce of men, the blossom-laden
earth, the white approaching mist, the softly falling night:--the
girl-bride could not tear herself from the spectacle. She sat beside the
window entranced. But her husband had captured her hand, and into the
overflowing beauty of nature there stole the thrill of their love.

"All very well!" said Boyson presently. "But a fog at Niagara is no
joke!"

The night stole on, and the cloud through which they journeyed grew
denser. Up crept the fog, on stole the night. The lights of the canal
faded, the orchards sank into darkness, and when the bride and
bridegroom reached the station on the Canadian side the bride's pleasure
had become dismay.

"Oh, Alfred, we shan't see anything!"

And, indeed, as their carriage made its slow progress along the road
that skirts the gorge, they seemed to plunge deeper and deeper into the
fog. A white darkness, as though of impenetrable yet glimmering cloud,
above and around them; a white abyss beneath them; and issuing from it
the thunderous voice of wild waters, dim first and distant, but growing
steadily in volume and terror.

"There are the lights of the bridge!" cried Boyson, "and the towers of
the aluminum works. But not a vestige of the Falls! Gone