WHAT YOU WILL. An Irregular Romance. IT CHAPTER I. 6 THE FACES IN THE FIRE.' T is night; a night given up to the wind and the rain. The wind, speeding on its mysterious journey, hurries wildly over the black, tempestuous seas-black, save where the waves break in foam, or chafe angrily against headland and bluff. Far out of sight of land it whistles through the cordage and shrouds of tossing ships, raising huge mountainous swells, which stagger them with successive blows, and dash the frothed foam-flakes over the star of light which gleams at the binnacle, and over the drenched sou'-wester of the man at the wheel: a time when nervous voyagers turn restlessly in their narrow berths, as in their broken dreams homesights and home-sounds visit them again. Drifting the salt spray for miles inland, the wild wind scours the barren mountain tops, deserted by all living things but the eagle, or hawk, or screaming curlew. The rain-cloud, dense and fringed, pours its waters over hill, and meadow, and fallow. The wind drives B |