STORM. [From "The Dear Girl." By PERCY FITZGERALD.] FOR two days the gale continued at the little town, neither increasing nor subsiding. In the morning, as in the evening, the air was of the cold bluishslate colour, and in the streets, in the shops where the owners sat, uncomfortable, with their doors fast closed, and doing no business, was heard the roar and tumbling of the breakers as at the back of a wall. No one went abroad, except a few enthusiasts, who would not give up their day's walk, and who, having trudged to the top of the great cliffs, after being blown about, struggling with their hats, staggering to keep their feet, came down with news that the sight from thence was "awfully grand," the sea far out in angry mist, and breaking and roaring in on the shore like a furious demon. No ships were seen. Even the old Eagle, the daily boat, a stout, clumsy, dowdy packet that would bear any rude treatment, did not ply. The colony seemed a city of the dead, the little streets were empty. Sharp faces, with a pinched and desolate expression, peered out from the little windows hopelessly. The way in which this change affected Mr. Dacres was almost pitiable. He lay in a chair, on a sofa, in the most miserable state of despondency, asking, over and over again, had he been born for this sort of thing-a man of his genius, wit, and parts? What was to become of him?-the bright hours of life passing away, prizes slipping from him, and he would die in this miserable "expatriation." Mr. Vivian came over again and again. Lucy was delighted with her new friend; to her the state of the weather was a purely indifferent thing. Happy those independent of such paltry influences! He was well read, fond of music, poetry, and what not; and Lucy, at her humble instrument, was happy to play and even sing for him, according to the instruction received at Miss Pringle's from M. Pontet, the master at that establishment. "I ought to be gone to-day," said the colonel, "and yet I shall confess I am not sorry for this forced delay--" "But why must you go?" said Lucy; "you might stay for the week, at least." "I shall be here again very soon," he said. "I must come by this way shortly." And he sighed and looked down. "Why?" said Dacres, looking at him curiously, as if he were a witness. "There is a dismal beat," said the officer, coldly, "on which I must walk-for many years, I dare say.' It came to be the third day. The night had been very stormy indeed, and tenants of the "little crockery" houses of the town (so an indignant colonist called them) were kept awake by angry roaring and moaning, and the sound of tiles bursting from the roof and clattering noisily down the street. When the dawn came, the streets were as clean and dry as though sweepers had been at work all night; the slate-colour had gone, and it was very dark and gloomy. There was a mysterious stillness along that flat, sandy, dismal track, which, for many miles, edges the French coast. The long avenue made by the two wooden piers was strained and cracking; and the fishermen, standing about idly, prophesied it would not bear much more. None of the boats were out. There was the Hélène, belonging to this port, and which was due in a day or two. Every one knew Captain Muret; none better than Madame Muret, in an old nightcap, who harangued the fishermen, now and again, that he would never put out in such weather. Muret had risen from the ranks, was the only fisherman of the place who was actually commander and part owner of a brig some three hundred tons burden. No wonder they had interest in Muret, or thought that the Hélène was the only vessel in the trade. Captain Filby was out on this day. Strange to say, his spirits were not affected by this weather. He did not call it a "hole of a place." He seemed rather to get respect for it. "A fine, bracing, hearty day, like one of our honest English gales. I didn't think they had it in 'em. To see these creatures skulking and shivering about; they're only half men." Captain Filby even trudged vigorously to the top of the cliffs, and looked down over the tremendous scene, to where an awful black heavy curtain, charged with horror and destruction, was hanging over the English coast. "How they're catching it over there!" he said. As he was looking, and holding on to his hat, he saw a black object far out at sea; it was coming on fast, and growing larger. "A ship, I declare," he said, and got out his glass. He watched it for a long time, and saw that it was a brig, labouring to keep well out. She had suffered a great deal, and her "poles" were bare enough. "You won't do it, my lads," said the captain, coolly, "even if you are British; which I doubt. You have a finicking look about you." The captain came down leisurely, walked round by the port, and recognised a thin gendarme who was shivering in a doorway, feeling every blast of |