ance of Evelyn soon merged in the gloomy monotony which had become the ruling tone of her mind. But not so did her affectionate interest in Lucy. So young, so gentle, so unsuspecting, was her happiness to be another sacrifice?—should she tell her all that had come to her own knowledge—all the painful records of her own experience? And yet it was possible he might love her—love her truly and deeply: if so, of what avail would it be to lower him in her esteem? It were best for Lucy still to gaze with sightless eyes on her idol.
Little good ever came of another's interference; and hours after hours passed by, and Francesca only grew more and more inclined to silence. Perhaps the languor that hung over her somewhat influenced this resolve. She could nerve herself to exertion—she could not speak of the past.
