another sphere; and that higher, purer, and better lot is our own."
The crimson burnt upon his cheek, and his eyes kindled with light—all that was beautiful and spiritual in his nature speaking in his face.
"You must not talk," said his sister; "it makes you feverish."
"It matters little," replied he, with a faint smile; but, nevertheless, resting his head on her shoulder to recover himself. "It is strange," he continued, "How vividly, now that I have no future on this earth, its past rises before me. I often lie for hours with the scenes of my earlier youth so present, that they seem actual. Francesca; I have been unhappy, very unhappy; and scarcely may I say that it is past even now. Perhaps, at our birth, we have a certain portion of enjoyment allotted to us, and this is to last us through our life; hence that fear which so often comes upon us, even in our most delighted moment—a dread of we know not what. It is a warning from within, that we are rashly revelling in that heart-wealth of which so small a pittance is ours. I was a very spendthrift with mine. I believe every one can look back to some particular period, and say, 'Dear and blessed time, how precious is your memory!' And yet we should
