sort of occupation; she left her books unopened, her lute unstrung; she took no pleasure in flowers. Lucy one day called her to come and look at a tree, whose late roses were beautiful—a second growth of summer, though summer was gone. Slowly she obeyed the summons. She gazed at the painted leaves—so fresh in colour and in fragrance; but they gave her no delight. Carelessly she said, "They are lovely!" and turned away. She felt grateful for Lucy's kindness, who sought to win her attention by every little art that feminine affection could suggest; but she would rather have been without it. Every thing was an exertion to her, for the animating impulse from within was wanting. She took long and lonely walks through the forest; but she marked not its autumn splendour,—she only desired in fatigue of body to lose the fatigue of mind.
Rumours of many changes were abroad, and Lord Avonleigh's return to his paternal domain was confidently reported. Francesca looked forward to it with no other sensation than dread,—new ties, new interests! she had not energy enough left to form them. Evil had been the experience of her youth,—the bitterness of ill-requited love only those may tell who have known it! Her memory was laden with mortifications, neglect, and un-
