And telling Catherine that he could not look through her accounts that morning, he went out of the house to see what the lake was like. ‘Boisterous enough; it would take a good swimmer to get across to-day. Maybe the wind will drop in the afternoon.’
The wind continued to rise, and next day he could only see white waves, tossing trees, and clouds tumbling over the mountains. He sat alone in his study staring at the lamp, the wind often awaking him from his reverie; and one night he remembered suddenly that it was no longer possible for him to cross the lake that month, even if the wind should cease, for he required not only a calm, but a moonlight night. And going out of the house, he walked about the hilltop, about the old thorn-bush, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood watching
