weeping, snatched up a handful of the wild flowers on the grave—they were wet with her tears.
"What a weak, inconsistent fool am I! The sun in a few hours will dry all traces of this heart-wrung moisture from the glistening leaves; and so will the glare of my busier life efface the traces of this emotion from my own memory—at least, if remembered during an occasional sad and lonely hour, I shall not be the less immersed in the pleasures, the interests, the thousand small hopes and fears of the day."
"It avails little," answered Francesca, "to dwell upon the past,"
"You are right," interrupted Marie; "the present is every thing."
"Nay," returned the other, "I meant not to make so sweeping an assertion."
"But I did," continued Madame de Soissons. "Of the past, to be very candid, I am a little ashamed. The future is but a chance; but the present—let me be amused, flattered, successful in ninety-nine out of my hundred projects—(I need an occasional stimulus)—and I shall get through life as pleasantly, or rather more so, than most persons. Let us forget this morning. I was wrong in yielding to an impulse, which is quite contrary to my system. It is a great mistake, cultivating
