“Look, look, Mrs. Trent,” exclaimed Doctor McMurray.  “The Peak is beginning to show.  Don’t you think the weather will clear?  Ah, it must clear, it must before they come, before the lawyers come.  Tell me, do you not think it will?”

Mrs. Trent’s face was very pale.  Her eyes gleamed very large and feverishly bright from beneath her lashes, as they searched the opposite side of the valley.  For some moments she kept silent, and for the second time that afternoon there was no sound in the room save the labored breathing of the man and woman.  At last there became audible the slowly increasing creak of a carriage, and the splashing of a horse’s hoofs through the sea of mud in the roadway.  Doctor McMurray heard, and he knew that Mrs. Trent heard also.

“Mrs. Trent,” he said softly, “Mrs. Trent, are the clouds lifting?  Can you see the Peak?”

Still the woman kept silent.  The sounds of the wheels grew momentarily louder, the voices of men talking broke in upon them, and then the carriage stopped before the door.

“Mrs. Trent,” pleaded the doctor for the last time, “tell me, can you see the Peak?”

He heard the men climb out of the carriage and come up to the door, then a loud knock.

Mrs. Trent at last broke her silence.

“Doctor McMurray,” she said, speaking quite softly, “Doctor McMurray, do you see?  The Peak is clear.  All the clouds have lifted!”

Literary Monthly, 1905.

THE FROST KING

CHARLES HENRY BRADY ’06

  When the weary sun, his day’s course run,
  Sinks into the western sea,
  And the mountains loom in the growing gloom
  With far-off mystery,
  When the shadows creep o’er plain and steep
  With stealthy tread and still,
  And the fettered stream to its icy dream
  Is left by the sleeping mill,
  From the frozen north I then lead forth
  My swiftly flying bands,
  In close array on the track of day,
  As she flees to other lands.

  From the wintry zone where the forests groan
  ’Neath burdens of dazzling white,
  And the tempest’s roar as it strikes the shore
  Turns daylight into night,
  My armies throng and we march along
  In the light of the peeping stars,
  Which smile with glee at our chivalry
  And the shock of our mimic wars. 
  For when earth and deep in a shroud of sleep
  Lie peaceful and still below,
  Supreme I reign in my airy domain,
  The monarch of ice and snow.

Literary Monthly, 1095.

UNTIL HE COMETH

GEORGE BURWELL DUTTON ’07

THE CHARACTERS

AHASUERUS, the Wandering Jew.

ANSELM, a holy monk.

A band of travellers,—­merchants, peasants, soldiers, who stop at the monastery over night.