trive to give you any idea of what they have seen; they seize upon some little personal fact, and there the memory halts. While others, who allow their observation to travel out of their own sphere, contrive to bring the scene vividly before you, and without the aid of invention, but with a dramatic power many a writer might envy, give the most lively and graphic description, simply because they have attended to what passed around them.
Francesca had a hundred questions to ask about Lord Avonleigh, but her curiosity remained ungratified for two reasons; first, because she could learn little from Lucy, excepting the reiterated "so handsome, and, so polite;" and secondly, because she was aware of her own interest in the subject, which she was yet unwilling to avow—and what occupies ourselves we always fancy must be obvious to others. Nothing ever teaches us the extent of our mutual and universal indifference.
Late as it was when they separated, Francesca did not retire to rest, but, re-trimming the lamp, she drew the little table towards her, and prepared to write to Lord Avonleigh. More than once she had begun to address him before, but her resolution had always failed, and she had deferred the execution till to morrow, which, as usual, never
