CHAPTER VIII.
"Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their prey.
* * * * * No azure more shall robe the firmament, Nor spangled stars be glorious." BYRON, _Heaven and Earth_.
IT was a lovely evening in April, the weather was unusually mild and serene for the time of year, in the northern districts of our isle, and the bright drops of a recent shower sparkled upon the buds of the lilac and laburnum that clustered round the cottage of Maltravers.

The little fountain that played in the centre of a circular basin, on whose clear surface the broad-leaved water-lily cast its fairy shadow, added to the fresh green of the lawn; "And softe as velvet the yonge grass," on which the rare and early flowers were closing their heavy lids.

That twilight shower had given a racy and vigorous sweetness to the air which stole over many a bank of violets, and slightly stirred the golden ringlets of Alice as she sate by the side of her entranced and silent lover.

They were seated on a rustic bench just without the cottage, and the open window behind them admitted the view of that happy room--with its litter of books and musical instruments--eloquent of the POETRY of HOME.
Maltravers was silent, for his flexile and excitable fancy was conjuring up a thousand shapes along the transparent air, or upon those shadowy violet banks.

He was not thinking, he was imagining.