THE FATE OF THE IDEAL Rhoda's week at the seashore was spoilt by uncertain weather.

Only two days of abiding sunshine; for the rest, mere fitful gleams across a sky heaped with stormclouds.

Over Wastdale hung a black canopy; from Scawfell came mutterings of thunder; and on the last night of the week--when Monica fled from her home in pelting rain--tempest broke upon the mountains and the sea.

Wakeful until early morning, and at times watching the sky from her inland-looking window, Rhoda saw the rocky heights that frown upon Wastwater illuminated by lightning-flare of such intensity and duration that miles of distance were annihilated, and it seemed but a step to these stern crags and precipices.
Sunday began with rain, but also with promise of better things; far over the sea was a broad expanse of blue, and before long the foam of the fallen tide glistened in strong, hopeful rays.

Rhoda wandered about the shore towards St.Bees Head.