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“Good Heavens!” exclaimed she, “cannot the man hold his tongue? His uncouth vociferations distract me! So fine a scene, so placid the moonlight–but there is always something that is not in perfect unison with one’s feelings.”

“Miss, if you please, you must light here, and walk for a matter of a quarter of a mile, for I can’t drive up to the house door, because there is no carriage-road down the lane; but if you be pleased, I’ll go on before you–my horses will stand quite quiet here–and I’ll knock the folks up for you, miss.”

“Folks!–Oh, don’t talk to me of knocking folks up,” cried Angelina, springing out of the carriage “stay with your horses, man, I beseech you. You shall be summoned when you are wanted–I choose to walk up to the cottage alone.”

“As you please, miss,” said the postilion; “only hur had better take care of the dogs.”

This last piece of sage counsel was lost upon our heroine; she heard it not–she was “rapt into future times.”

“By moonlight will be our first interview–just as I had pictured to myself–but can this be the cottage?–It does not look quite so romantic as I expected–but ’tis the dwelling of my Araminta–Happy, thrice happy moment!–Now for our secret signal–I am to sing the first, and my unknown friend the second part of the same air.”

Angelina then began to sing the following stanza–

“O waly waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn side,
Where I and my love were wont to gae.”

She sung and paused, in expectation of hearing the second part from her amiable Araminta–but no voice was heard.

“All is hushed,” said Angelina–“ever tranquil be her slumbers! Yet I must waken her–her surprise and joy at seeing me thus will be so great!–by moonlight too!”

She knocked at the cottage window–still no answer.

“All silent as night!” said she–

“‘When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene.'”

Angelina, as she repeated these lines, stood with her back to the cottage window: the window opened, and a Welsh servant girl put out her head; her night-cap, if cap it might be called which shape had none, was half off, her black hair streamed over her shoulders, and her face was the face of vulgar, superstitious amazement.

“Oh, ’tis our old ghost of Nelly Gwynn, all in white, walking and saying her prayers backwards–I heard ’em quite plain, as I hope to breathe,” said the terrified girl to herself; and, shutting the window with a trembling hand, she hastened to waken an old woman, who slept in the same room with her.–Angelina, whose patience was by this time exhausted, went to the door of the cottage, and shook it with all her force.–It rattled loud, and a shrill scream was heard from within.

“A scream!” cried Angelina; “Oh, my Araminta!–All is hushed again.”–Then raising her voice, she called as loudly as she could at the window–“My Araminta! my unknown friend! be not alarmed, ’tis your Angelina.”

The door opened slowly and softly, and a slip-shod beldam peeped out, leaning upon a stick; the head of Betty Williams appeared over the shoulder of this sibyl; Angelina was standing, in a pensive attitude, listening at the cottage window. At this instant the postilion, who was tired of waiting, came whistling up the lane; he carried a trunk on his back, and a bag in his hand. As soon as the old woman saw him, she held up her stick, exclaiming–

“A man! a man!–a ropper and murterer!–Cot suve us! and keep the door fast polted.”–They shut the door instantly.

“What is all this?” said Angelina, with dignified composure.

“A couple of fools, I take it, miss, who are afraid and in tred of roppers,” said the postilion; “put I’ll make ’em come out, I’ll be pound, plockheads.”–So saying, he went to the door of Angelina Bower, and thundered and kicked at it, speaking all the time very volubly in Welsh. In about a quarter of an hour he made them comprehend that Angelina was a young lady come to visit their mistress: then they came forth curtsying.