Let us wait.
All day long, the sky, of a uniform grey, has appeared to be brewing a storm.

In spite of the threatened downpour, my neighbour, who is a shrewd weather-prophet, has come out of the cypress-tree and begun to renew her web at the regular hour.

Her forecast is correct: it will be a fine night.

See, the steaming-pan of the clouds splits open; and, through the apertures, the moon peeps, inquisitively.

I too, lantern in hand, am peeping.