faded itself into the dim twilight, before Francesca roused from her gloomy reverie, which perhaps would have continued even longer had it not been broken by Lucy's approach, who, missing her, had sought her out to bring her a letter of Lord Avonleigh's, which ran thus:
"Dearest Francesca,—For, if not avowedly my child, still mine in heart and truth,—I have ordered all necessary preparations to be made for your reception at the Castle, where you will be received as the Signora de Carrara, the daughter of an old Italian friend. Albert alone is aware of our nearer connexion; he is prepared to meet you with a brother's affection, though he knows not what he owes to your generous forbearance. Command me in everything, your affectionate
Avonleigh."
There was a kindness in this letter which somewhat reassured Francesca, though she could not help wondering at the ease with which it was written. To a sensitive temper like hers, keenly alive to the feelings of others, because their knowledge had been taught by her own, nothing is more astonishing than the careless and easy manner in which the many pass over the surface, gloss over
