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recollection that his evil had been her good—that but for the serious thoughts which throng before as the heralds of death, he might never have avowed the deception which he had practised—and never, on this side the grave, would she and Robert Evelyn have known how dearly and truly each loved the other. But this idea brought with it a chill and vague terror. Was happiness, then, surrounded, by loss and sacrifice?—was destiny to be propitiated but by a human victim? An unfathomable dread seemed to steal gradually over her spirits—only mournful images arose within her mind. Henriette, Guido, perishing in their good and beautiful youth!—Francis Evelyn cut off with—she dared not think how many unrepented faults! What was there in her that her fate should be better than theirs? In vain she strove to shake off her depression—she felt but the more subdued. The large tears fell like dew on the slender stalks of the wild flowers below—alas! were they omens?