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Rh It was late in the autumn when the Mancinis departed; and drearily did the ensuing months pass with Francesca and Guido. The season, too, added its gloom. In our northern climes we have comfort and even gaiety with winter; there the cheerful fireside and the hospitality of Christmas make that period a sort of rallying point for the year. But where summer forms so large a portion of the enjoyment of the people—where all the habits are those of a warm climate, where all ordinary avocations of life are carried on in the open air, a long and severe winter is tedious indeed. The first letter they received was from Marie; their next was from Henrietta, who earnestly advised their coming to Paris. This was rendered impossible by the fixed attachment of their grandfather to his present residence, whose habits of seclusion were become more engrossing than ever.

"I sometimes believe," said Guido, as, one cold, raw evening they sat beside the hearth, illumined by the red glare of the burning pine-boughs, "that the thing we call happiness, exists not. Its desire is implanted in our hearts, its promise dazzles our eyes; but its reality is unknown. I look back to each moment I have experienced of enjoyment—how was it ever mingled with fever and with