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was a disappointment—and his sole solace, drawing fanciful similitudes between the faded embers and his own quenched hopes. "So have they perished before me, one and all, the dreams in which I have indulged—the aims to which I aspired. Love—that which should have been the one sweet flower on my weary path—has indeed been to me the reed which pierced the heart that leant on it so confidingly. Since falsehood could wear such fair similitude of truth—since Francesca could deceive me—whom can I ever trust again? And, good God! to think that it was my own brother, from whom I had not kept back one thought—who knew how I prized the treasure of which he robbed me—that he should have turned away from me that affection I deemed so entirely my own! But, poor Francis! I must not think of him now with anger. Cut off in the pride of youth, he has dearly paid for all his faults and follies. But a few months more, and what a change would have awaited him! The Stuarts are now on the English throne—an event which must have realised all his hope of brilliant fortunes. Had he lived, my father's house would not have passed into the hands of strangers. How vain are the schemes in which we all delight! Francis, ardent and courtly, devotes himself to that royal