The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind-the noise and wet and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; ‘twas a crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference – a mocking of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I heard the wheeze and tread of my uncle in the kitchen. He entered – his broad face grave and anxious and grieved – but instantly fled, though I beckoned; for Parson Lute, overcome, it may be; by the impiety of Elizabeth, was upon his knees, fervently praying that the misguided soul might yet by some miraculous manifestation of grace be restored to propriety of view and of feeling.