Clara Hopgood

'Frank,' she murmured, as she bent her head towards him, 'it is

really a lovely poem.'

Suddenly there was a flash of forked lightning at some distance,

followed in a few seconds by a roll of thunder increasing in

intensity until the last reverberation seemed to shake the ground.

They took refuge in a little barn and sat down. Madge, who was timid

and excited in a thunderstorm, closed her eyes to shield herself from

the glare.

The tumult in the heavens lasted for nearly two hours and, when it

was over, Madge and Frank walked homewards without speaking a word

for a good part of the way.

'I cannot, cannot go to-morrow,' he suddenly cried, as they neared

the town.

'You SHALL go,' she replied calmly.

'But, Madge, think of me in Germany, think what my dreams and

thoughts will be--you here--hundreds of miles between us.'

She had never seen him so shaken with terror.

'You SHALL go; not another word.'

'I must say something--what can I say? My God, my God, have mercy on

me!' 'Mercy! mercy!' she repeated, half unconsciously, and then rousing

herself, exclaimed, 'You shall not say it; I will not hear; now,

good-bye.'

They had come to the door; he went inside; she took his face between

her hands, left one kiss on his forehead, led him back to the doorway

and he heard the bolts drawn. When he recovered himself he went to

the 'Crown and Sceptre' and tried to write a letter to her, but the

words looked hateful, horrible on the paper, and they were not the

words he wanted. He dared not go near the house the next morning,

but as he passed it on the coach he looked at the windows. Nobody

was to be seen, and that night he left England.

'Did you hear,' said Clara to her mother at breakfast, 'that the

lightning struck one of the elms in the avenue at Mrs Martin's

yesterday evening and splintered it to the ground?'