It was as if some giant had blown upon some toy town, and scattered many of the buildings before the hot blast of his terrific breath; for as suddenly as that blast of wind had come did it cease, and all was as still and calm as before.

Sleepers awakened, and thought that what they had heard must be the confused chimera of a dream.  They trembled and turned to sleep again.

All is still—­still as the very grave.  Not a sound breaks the magic of repose.  What is that—­a strange, pattering noise, as of a million of fairy feet?  It is hail—­yes, a hail-storm has burst over the city.  Leaves are dashed from the trees, mingled with small boughs; windows that lie most opposed to the direct fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise which, in its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which here and there arose from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm.

Now and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind that in its strength, as it blew laterally, would, for a moment, hold millions of the hailstones suspended in mid air, but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some new direction, where more mischief was to be done.

Oh, how the storm raged!  Hail—­rain—­wind.  It was, in very truth, an awful night.

* * * * *

There is an antique chamber in an ancient house.  Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimney-piece is a curiosity of itself.  The ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west.  The window is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the apartment.  There is but one portrait in that room, although the walls seem panelled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures.  That portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice.

There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works of art which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era.  It is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners—­covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to the room.  The floor is of polished oak.

God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window!  Like an occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist it—­their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain.