cating, by some subtile magnetism, her own terror to the
summons. Clifford would turn his face to the pillow, and
cover his head beneath the bedclothes, like a startled child
at midnight. She knocked a third time, three regular
strokes, gentle, but perfectly distinct, and with meaning
in them; for, modulate it with what cautious art we will,
the hand cannot help playing some tune of what we feel,
upon the senseless wood.

Clifford returned no answer.

" Clifford! dear brother!" said Hepzibah. "Shall I
come in?"

A silence.

Two or three times, and more, Hepzibah repeated his
name, without result; till, thinking her brother's sleep
unwontedly profound, she undid the door, and entering,
found the chamber vacant. How could he have come
forth, and when, without her knowledge? Was it possible
that, in spite of the stormy day, and worn out with the
irksomeness within doors, he had betaken himself to his
customary haunt in the garden, and was now shivering
under the cheerless shelter of the summer-house? She
hastily threw up a window, thrust forth her turbaned head
and the half of her gaunt figure, and searched the whole
garden through, as completely as her dim vision would al-
low. She could see the interior of the summer-house,
and its circular seat, kept moist by the droppings of the
roof. It had no occupant. Clifford was not thereabouts;
unless, indeed, he had crept for concealment (as, for a mo-
ment, Hepzibah fancied might be the case) into a great,
wet mass of tangled and broad-leaved shadow, where the
squash-vines were clambering tumultuously upon an old
wooden framework, set casually aslant against the fence.

-276-