" "I know not how it is," sighed Darrell, "but I feel an unaccountable misgiving at quitting this place. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. For a short time they allowed me to share the warmth of their lives. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. Can you come?\" Michelle asked expectantly.
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