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98 But Francesca was yet in the first bitterness of her loss; and she gazed upon the smiling and blooming countenance almost reproachfully. Days passed on, each in expectation of Guido, who yet did not arrive. How wearily they passed! Francesca found that she had indeed taken that first step across youth's threshold which tells that its first freshness has perished. She was no longer so easily amused as she had been—that certain sign of the weary change which experience is working within us. During her former stay in the convent, the unbroken and buoyant spirits of the girl threw their own charm over all; she was either entertained or interested by all she saw; even her very melancholy had its own peculiar enjoyment. Now there was so much that was tiresome—the folly, the ignorance, the monotony of the place, were so much more conspicuous; the solitude of the garden had lost its poetry. She could no longer surround herself with a thousand vague but delicious dreams; painful realities broke in upon imaginations whose spell was gone; for she had learned to anticipate the future from the past.

The pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle Epernon over, she found there was indeed a gulf between them—they had not a thought in common. The Sœur Louise was growing every hour more mystic