about him; but to begin was so very difficult. On her return home from meeting Evelyn, it was impossible for one so little versed in duplicity, so little accustomed to self-restraint, to conceal her anxiety and depression. She sat in the window, seemingly occupied in watching the moonlight touching with pale hues the crimson of the few late roses that clustered round the casement; but the large tears fell upon the flowers, and the deep-drawn breath betrayed the scarcely checked sob.
Francesca, who, since Guido's death, had shrunk from the contemplation of natural loveliness, was seated in a large arm-chair, which stood in the darkest corner of the room, silent, sad, but less abstracted than usual; for her thoughts were busy with her companion. She marked the colourless cheek, the mournful attitude; and, rising from her place, approached Lucy, took the other half of the window-seat, and bending kindly towards her, said, "You are weeping, dear Lucy; what is the matter?—can I do anything for you?"
There are moments when a kind word or look goes direct to the heart: these did so with Lucy, who, throwing her arms round her friend's neck, gave way to a violent burst of tears.
"Poor child!" exclaimed Francesca, soothing her with a sister’s affection. "Lucy, love, do not
