mories and subduing time throw a kindly soothing over the first bitter and rigid suffering. "It shall not long be left thus dreary," thought Francesca, and turned aside her face, but in vain; she could think of nothing but the murdered cavalier—for murdered he was in her eyes—whose coffin was hidden but by a little heap of recklessly flung earth. Again and again she recurred to the scene of his execution, whose horror was heightened by the familiar circumstances with which it was attended. The customary scaffold has its own awe—justice and obedience and usage surround the place; but to die a violent death, and by the hand of man, amid life's daily scenes, all associations so domestic and so ordinary, aggravates the ghastly spectacle, and makes the doom seem at once cruel and undeserved.
Francesca had never sufficiently commanded herself to pass through the farm-yard since Evelyn's death; but the sudden sight of the newly dug grave recalled every occurrence of that dreadful morning. She thought of his daring demeanour—of the fearlessness with which he met his fate—of his youth, and the promise which life held out to him. Young, high-born, handsome, rich, and brave—all these advantages were in one moment less than nothing. She fruitlessly struggled with the
