One evening they chanced to be alone in the oak-parlour. They had passed a long wet day together without _ennui_. It was now on the edge of dark; candles were not yet brought in; both, as twilight deepened, grew meditative and silent. A western wind roared high round the hall, driving wild clouds and stormy rain up from the far-remote ocean; all was tempest outside the antique lattices, all deep peace within. Shirley sat at the window, watching the rack in heaven, the mist on earth, listening to certain notes of the gale that plained like restless spirits--notes which, had she not been so young, gay, and healthy, would have swept her trembling nerves like some omen, some anticipatory dirge. In this her prime of existence and bloom of beauty they but subdued vivacity to pensiveness. Snatches of sweet ballads haunted her ear; now and then she sang a stanza. Her accents obeyed the fitful impulse of the wind; they swelled as its gusts rushed on, and died as they wandered away. Caroline, withdrawn to the farthest and darkest end of the room, her figure just discernible by the ruby shine of the flameless fire, was pacing to and fro, muttering to herself fragments of well-remembered poetry. She spoke very low, but Shirley heard her; and while singing softly, she listened. 
One evening they chanced to be alone in the oak-parlour. They had passed a long wet day together without tedium. It was now almost dark; candles were not yet brought in; both were meditative and silent.
A western wind roared high round the hall, driving wild clouds and stormy rain; all was tempest outside, all deep peace within. Shirley sat at the window, listening to the restless complaints of the gale, which made her pensive. Snatches of sweet ballads haunted her ear; now and then she sang a stanza, obeying the fitful impulse of the wind. Caroline, at the darkest end of the room, was just discernible by the ruby shine of the fire, pacing to and fro, muttering fragments of poetry. She spoke very low, but Shirley heard her:
