was a deep and sad expression on that brow, too thoughtful for one so young; and the smile on that lip was sweet, but never glad. Every look bore testimony to the inward and profound melancholy born of that long suffering which dares not trust itself with joy, and originating, too, in a temperament sad and sensitive by nature. We look on such, even in their happiest moments, and fear for them. Destiny has its favourites; but such are not of the number.
Francesca did not meet a creature in the forest; the wind was the only sound, and her own thoughts her sole companions: one was uppermost in her mind. The path she now followed to meet the living had hitherto been only traced when she had sought to commune with the dead—it led to Guido's grave.
