"Not only patience, but inclination," cried Marie, drawing her chair eagerly forward, and looking the curiosity she felt.
Thus encouraged, Francesca proceeded as briefly as possible to detail the events of the last two years, interrupted only by an occasional exclamation of surprise from her companion; and at last concluded by saying, "And now, can any thing be more hopeless? An exile in all probability from his country for ever, what chance have I of meeting Robert Evelyn again? And even were we to meet, it would be in coldness on his part, which would be an insurmountable bar to explanation. Often and often do I feel so wretched, so despairing, that the quiet rest of the grave seems all that I dare desire, or can hope."
"Not quite so desperate, dearest Francesca. I never will believe but that Fate owes you a recompence. I will for once prophesy from my wishes, and predict a happy meeting between yourself and Mr. Evelyn."
Francesca pressed her extended hand, but gave no further answer; and the friends separated for the night—one to think, the other to act. Madame de Soissons had just finished a packet to be despatched to her uncle. Late as was the hour, she sat down and wrote a long letter, which, when con-
