A moment afterward, and an elm, whose great arms had for nearly a century spread themselves out in the sunshine tranquilly or battled with the storms, fell crashing against the house, shaking it to the very foundations.

The maiden drew back from the window, overcome with terror.  These shocks were too much for her nerves.  But her lover restrained her, saying, with a covert chiding in his voice,

“Stay, Irene!  There is a wild delight in all this, and are you not brave enough to share it with me?”

But she struggled to release herself from his arm, replying with a shade of impatience—­

“Let me go, Hartley!  Let me go!”

The flexed arm was instantly relaxed, and the maiden was free.  She went back, hastily, from the window, and, sitting down on a sofa, buried her face in her hands.  The young man did not follow her, but remained standing by the window, gazing out upon Nature in her strong convulsion.  It may, however, be doubted whether his mind took note of the wild images that were pictured in his eyes.  A cloud was in the horizon of his mind, dimming its heavenly azure.  And the maiden’s sky was shadowed also.

For two or three minutes the young man stood by the window, looking out at the writhing trees and the rain pouring down an avalanche of water, and then, with a movement that indicated a struggle and a conquest, turned and walked toward the sofa on which the maiden still sat with her face hidden from view.  Sitting down beside her, he took her hand.  It lay passive in his.  He pressed it gently; but she gave back no returning pressure.  There came a sharp, quick gleam of lightning, followed by a crash that jarred the house.  But Irene did not start—­we may question whether she even saw the one or heard the other, except as something remote.

“Irene!”

She did not stir.

The young man leaned closer, and said, in a tender voice—­

“Irene—­darling—­”

Her hand moved in his—­just moved—­but did not return the pressure of his own.

“Irene.”  And now his arm stole around her.  She yielded, and, turning, laid her head upon his shoulder.

There had been a little storm in the maiden’s heart, consequent upon the slight restraint ventured on by her lover when she drew back from the window; and it was only now subsiding.

“I did not mean to offend you,” said the young man, penitently.

“Who said that I was offended?” She looked up, with a smile that only half obliterated the shadow.  “I was frightened, Hartley.  It is a fearful storm!” And she glanced toward the window.

The lover accepted this affirmation, though he knew better in his heart.  He knew that his slight attempt at constraint had chafed her naturally impatient spirit, and that it had taken her some time to regain her lost self-control.