One of her gloves lay on the small rustic table in the summer-house.

Mowbray caught it eagerly up.

It was drenched with wet--the preceding day had been dry; so that, had she forgot it there in the morning, or in the course of the day, it could not have been in that state.

She had certainly been there during the night, when it rained heavily.
Mowbray, thus assured that Clara had been in this place, while her passions and fears were so much afloat as they must have been at her flight from her father's house, cast a hurried and terrified glance from the brow of the precipice into the deep stream that eddied below.

It seemed to him that, in the sullen roar of the water, he heard the last groans of his sister--the foam-flakes caught his eye, as if they were a part of her garments.