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208 itself may be past,—gone like a sweet vain dream which it is useless to remember, or dismissed as an unworthy delusion; still its memory remains. A thousand slight things recall some of its many emotions—it has become a standard of comparison; and the "once we felt otherwise," occurs oftener than many would allow, but all must confess.

Again they rode along in silence, though less abstractedly than before; for every now and then some far vista, like the aisle of a mighty temple upreared in giant marble, caught the eye, to rest with delight on the clear blue sky to which it opened; or, perhaps, most beautiful in the rapidly approaching dissolution, they marked some singularly slight and graceful tree, covered with its white wreaths and icicles, every one a rainbow in the colouring sunshine.

Suddenly a distant sound of music came upon the air—a far and melancholy sound, like the wailing poured forth for defeat or death,—when even the trumpet, so glorious in its rejoicing, shows how mournful can be the voice of its lament. Francesca turned to Arden, who could only express his surprise. She then questioned the boy who led the horse with the baggage, with some difficulty—for to hear and to comprehend were two very different things; but from him she could obtain