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CHAPTER XXXVII.
"Farewell, farewell! if ever prayer
For other's weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost on air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky."
Byron.
Francesca made no attempt to leave the solitude of her own chamber that evening. It were indeed a vain show to play the hostess, whose reign of courtesy was drawing so rapidly to a close. She needed to compose her thoughts—to still her excited nerves; but she strove, without avail, to shake off the profound depression which hung over her. She sat lost in a gloomy reverie, from which she was roused by observing that the sand had run from the hour-glass, which she had turned mechanically when she first took her seat. Hastily she rose, and drew the table towards her. She had resolved on writing to her father, but it was an irksome task; still it needed to be done. "This," thought she, "is the second letter which I have addressed to him. With what different
