Not a sound breaks the magic of repose.

What is that--a strange, pattering noise, as of a million of fairy feet?
It is hail--yes, a hail-storm has burst over the city.
Leaves are dashed from the trees, mingled with small boughs; windows that lie most opposed to the direct fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise which, in its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which here and there arose from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm.
Now and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind that in its strength, as it blew laterally, would, for a moment, hold millions of the hailstones suspended in mid air, but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some new direction, where more mischief was to be done.
Oh, how the storm raged! Hail--rain--wind.

It was, in very truth, an awful night.
* * * * * There is an antique chamber in an ancient house.

Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimney-piece is a curiosity of itself.

The ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west.