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We do not know how much we love, Until we come to leave: An aged tree, a common flower, Are things o'er which we grieve. There is a pleasure in the pain That brings us back the past again.

We linger while we turn away, We cling while we depart; And memories, unmarked till then, Come crowding on the heart. Let what will lure our onward way, Farewell's a bitter word to say.

moon was shining full into Lady Marchmont's window, and a soft western breeze was stirring the branches at the yet open casement. The aspect on this side the dwelling was as wooded and fertile, as on the other it was bare and barren. To the left, towered an ancient