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CHAPTER XX.
"He who commands me to mine own content,
Commands me to the thing I cannot find."
Shakespeare.
We must entreat our readers to suppose that the following few winter months glided away in all the unmarked monotony of usual existence. How little does what we wished fulfil, when realised, what we expected. But a brief period passed, and Francesca would have held that her present position was all that could be dreamed—all that could be desired. Acknowledged child of a noble house—heiress to its name, and to its wealth—young and beautiful—it was as if some good fairy had stood godmother to her fortune. So much for the outward seeming. But whoso had paused here had left the story but half told. Young she was, but the buoyancy of youth had departed from her for ever—her spirits were broken by care, sorrow, and the frequent presence of death; beautiful, but she was not vain,—and what recked she
