Hark!  No; there was another sound.  Amid the moaning and the wailing of winds and waves, and the groaning of the coming storm, was heard the regular fall of oars, soon followed by the slow, grating sound of a boat pushed up upon the frozen strand.  Marian paused and strained her eyes through the darkness in the direction of the sound, but could see nothing save the deeper, denser darkness around Pine Bluff.  She turned, and, under cover of the darkness, moved swiftly and silently from the locality.  The storm was coming on very fast.  The rain was falling and the wind rising and driving it into her face.  She pulled her hood closely about her face, and wrapped her shawl tightly about her as she met the blast.

Oh! where was Thurston, and why did he not come?  She blamed herself for having ventured out; yet could she have foreseen this?  No; for she had confidently trusted in his keeping his appointment.  She had never known him to fail before.  What could have caused the failure now?  Had he kept his tryste they would now have been safely housed at Old Field Cottage.  Perhaps Thurston, seeing the clouds, had taken for granted that she would not come, and he had therefore stayed away.  Yet, no; she could not for an instant entertain that thought.  Well she knew that had a storm risen, and raged as never a storm did before, Thurston, upon the bare possibility of her presence there, would keep his appointment.  No; something beyond his control had delayed him.  And, unless he should now very soon appear, something very serious had happened to him.  The storm was increasing in violence; her shawl was already wet, and she resolved to hurry home.

She had just turned to go when the sound of a man’s heavy, measured footsteps, approaching from the opposite direction, fell upon her ear.  She looked up half in dread, and strained her eyes out into the blackness of the night.  It was too dark to see anything but the outline of a man’s figure wrapped in a large cloak, coming slowly on toward her.  As the man drew near she recognized the well-known figure, air and gait; she had of the identity.  She hastened to meet him, exclaiming in a low, eager tone: 

“Thurston! dear Thurston!”

The man paused, folded his cloak about him, drew up, and stood perfectly still.

Why did he not answer her?  Why did he not speak to her?  Why did he stand so motionless, and look so strange?  She could not have seen the expression of his countenance, even if a flap of his cloak had not been folded across his face; but his whole form shook as with an ague fit.

“Thurston! dear Thurston!” she exclaimed once more, under her breath, as she pressed toward him.