sacrifice to the unpitying past. But not the less at the time did the disappointment appear too heavy, not the less cruel was its influence over the mind; the ideal of love is gone for ever—its poetry a dream, its fairy-land a departed vision.
Francesca felt as if life had suddenly lost its interest; yet it was not the lover that she regretted, but the love. Never more could the future be one vague but delicious hope; never more could she turn away disbelieving from the tale of treachery and inconstancy; never more take refuge in the depths of her own imagination, and find comfort in her own belief of perfect love.
Her taper sinking in the socket, warned her how late, or rather how early, it was; for a shadowy light made the chamber dimly visible. She drew back the heavy curtain, and in came the bright sunshine, and the cool fresh air. Below lay the garden, where arches of gathered flowers drooped, discoloured and withered, beside the fresh growth on the natural bough. Most of the lamps were extinct, but they glittered golden in the morning light, and in some few a pale white flame yet struggled with day. As she left the window, the mirror opposite caught her eye—that mirror which she had left the evening before radiant with the graceful aids of dress. She started back
