loved—seeing Evelyn again with every advantage,—and who that ever loved but pined to bestow every worldly good on the loved one? She had invented all possible circumstances but those under which they were now likely to meet.
The day was cold and clear, yet the atmosphere of the chamber where she sat oppressed her breathing. She drew her cloak round her, and went forth; but the air did not revive her, the sunshine could not cheer her. The reaction of the over-excited spirits aided the moral depression, and she sought the churchyard. With the living she had no ties of sympathy—she had with the dead.
The grass was now long and green upon Guido's grave, and filled with small, pale wild flowers. A heavy cloud rested over the inclosed space, where the black yews waved dismally; while, far away, the sunshine reposed on the distant height. Francesca gazed upon it,—it was the very emblem of her fate. So did the light of youth and hope recede from her horizon, leaving around her but the weight and the shadow.
She took her usual seat beside the grave, and, leaning her head upon her arm, gave way to bitter weeping. The gloomy belief of Richard Arden rose present upon her mind; the melancholy forebod-
