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There was a shadow on his face, that spake Of passion long since hardened into thought. He had a smile, a cold and scornful smile; Not gaiety, not sweetness, but the sign Of feelings moulded at their master's will. A weary world was hidden at that heart; Sorrow and strife were there, and it had learnt The weary lessons time and sorrow teach: And deeply felt itself the vanity Of love and hope, and now could only feel Distrust in them, and mockery for those Who could believe in what he knew was vain.

was with a natural touch of pride that Norbourne Courtenaye paced his paternal hall, while waiting for his uncle, with whom he was going to ride. It was one of those fine specimens of Norman architecture which yet attest the taste of that stately race. It was lined with oak, long since black with age, richly