A fine, young tree, uprooted by the tempest, lay across the carriage-way before the house, its topmost branches resting on the steps of the piazza: the grass was strewed with leaves like autumn, and the paths were simply pools of water.

Sophie, more than once, came to the door, and begged us to come in, for fear of the dampness and the cold, but no one heeded her suggestion.

Even she herself came out very often, and looked and listened anxiously.

Finally my ear caught a sound: I ran down the steps, and bent forward eagerly.
There was some one coming along the garden-path that led up from the river.

I could hear the water plashing as he walked, and he was coming rapidly.