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Rh "I observe," said Francesca to her companion, "that you have no flowers."

"I have not patience to cultivate them," replied Louise. "I planted some once; but, poor things, they soon perished for want of care. I used to love them; but now my thoughts wander away from the flowers to their recollections—to all that should be so utterly banished from my meditations."

Perhaps there is not a situation in the world so confidential as pacing up and down some shady walk, arm in arm. The freedom of that freest element, the air, communicates itself to the thoughts; the green obscurity of the closing branches overhead re-assures timidity; the motion gives its own activity, and dissipates the nervous restlessness ever attendant on excitement. Your face is necessarily a little averted from your companion's, though not enough to prevent your marking the attention given. Then the chance which led to your choice of subject was so accidental, the discourse has proceeded so gradually, that restraint has melted away from the lip, and reserve from the heart, almost before the speaker is aware that the secret soul has found its way in words.

"I can scarcely," said the nun, as she complied with Francesca's request that she would