260 THE DARYL IN MAY. 



the night is announced by the pale horn of the 

 moon, which hangs on the ragged edge of the 

 hill. There are as yet but few stars out, and the 

 wind is rising with a dreary soughing growl, as 

 though it had an uncomfortable series of duties 

 to perform when the world was asleep and at 

 rest. Now you can hear the sea plainly enough, 

 and the sheen of the light-house lamp sends a 

 streak of narrow radiance on the weltering tide. 

 Everything near is being hidden more and 

 more from you. The bushes by the roadside 

 lose their shapes and disappear ; the cabins are 

 spirited off; but the Grange, in which Ma- 

 riana might have pined, stands out in relief, or 

 appears rather to be floating off the ground or 

 cast on the dark screen of the night, like a 

 grim picture of ruin in a magic lanthorn. 

 Later on, the angler might continue his sport 

 through these gloomy hours ; but in May the 

 trout do not feed on late suppers. And so, 

 with an appetite and a pleasant anxiety for 

 slippers, the fisher reaches his inn or his home 

 at. last. Before he sinks to sleep his mind 

 repeats a few of these immaterial incidents re- 

 corded above. The birds have sung, the wild 



