FRANCESCA CARRARA.
CHAPTER I.
"It is the past that maketh my despair—
The dark, the sad, the irrevocable past!"
L. E. L.
Of all the melancholy days consecrated to the memory of the dead, perhaps the most mournful—the one jarring most immediately by strong contrast with its predecessors—is the day when the coffin has been carried from the house, and the light of heaven admitted through the recently darkened windows. Every object looks so unfamiliar. We have become accustomed to the dim atmosphere and the long shadows,—they seemed to sympathise with us. Now, the cheerful sun looks in mockingly; we rejoice not in the face of day; it brings not hope, but memory to our minds; and we only watch the gladdening beams to think that they are shining on the narrow grave.
During Guido's long illness Francesca had
