trial and by absence. She had essayed the value of affection both in its possession and its want; and she felt the strong confidence of an attachment at once thoughtful and passionate, in a future shared by Robert Evelyn. Life could have no path so rugged but what she were content to track at his side. Evelyn preferred speaking to writing; he had asked an interview, with something of affection's gentle cunning in his thoughts. Surely, when painted by him, the future would not seem so desolate; and, moreover, he could read the impression in her eyes before her words found utterance. Their interview that night would determine all.
Evening came at last, though never had day seemed so long to Francesca. The constant consciousness of having something to conceal harassed her like a spectre. Her feverish and excited imagination conjured up every possible variety of misfortune, and read cause to fear or to suspect in every face around. She could not help contrasting her fate with that of Hortense Mancini, who, having decided on selecting her own choice, fairly set her uncle at defiance—an uncle to whom she owed at least the obedience of gratitude—and yet every circumstance combined to favour her. The very plan laid to unite her with another only
