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300 ah, surely, less troubled than ours! It rose just above where Ethel was sleeping, the only agitated thing in all that fair and calm scene: she lay with her head on her arm, and tears

as the flushed cheek pressed upon it. Her long bright tresses had escaped from all confinement, and lay around her in rich confused masses, but giving that air of desolation which nothing marks in a woman so strongly as her neglected hair. Her eyes were closed, but the soft eyelids were swelled and red, and the eyelashes yet glittered with tears; a spot of burning red was on either cheek, but the rest of the face was pale; and, even in slumber, the muscles of the mouth quivered. Her breathing was difficult—how unlike its usual hushed and regular sweetness—while every now and then her whole frame was shaken by a quick convulsive sob. Terrible, indeed, is such sleep; but more terrible its awaking. At first we rouse forgetful; but conscious of something, we know not what. The head is raised with