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72 her heart beat audibly—or in watching the placid sleep of her mother. The last small red cloud mirrored in the fountain disappeared—distant objects were lost in obscurity—the shadows seemed as they do seem at nightfall, almost substantial—tree after tree disappeared—the fountain and the nearer shrubs looked like fantastic figures; she fancied she could see them move. Even these became invisible; and the darkness was so entire, that, to use the common but expressive phrase, she could not see her hand. Still, voices came from the house, in singing and shouts. It was evident they intended to pass the night there, and were consuming its earlier part in revelry. The hope she had hitherto entertained of their departure was at an end. To spend the night in the open air was nothing to the mountain-bred girl. She crept close to her mother—the moss and heaped-up leaves were soft and dry—she leant over her, and felt her warm breath on her cheek; she then knelt beside, and prayed earnestly in the English tongue. There was superstition, perhaps, in this—but affection is superstitious. At length the sounds from the house ceased—strange, she missed them; the utter silence