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212 hear all this repeated, began to tell him that they had slightly known Mr. Evelyn; and proposed, as they were chilled with their pause beneath the beech, to ride on a little briskly.

Francesca's eyes were too full of tears even to look her thanks for his watchfulness; but she rode on, glad to be distracted by the rapid pace, which demanded all her attention; for, unaccustomed to ride, she was a timid horsewoman. But the moment they slackened their pace, she reverted to the scene which had just passed. Only to have seen him again was enough for agitation; but to see him engaged in an office so holy and so touching, and to hear his praises, made every pulse in her heart beat even to pain. His pale, mournful countenance rose before her; and, as it had ever happened when aught occurred to soften her feelings towards him, she went back to those first and happy days in Italy, when she loved him so entirely, so confidingly, and he seemed so worthy of her utmost devotion! But again that last scene at Compiegne rose visibly before her; not only his falsehood to her, but his slander of her, came to mind. It seemed as if she had never felt their full heinousness till now—now that with shame she owned that for a moment she had relented in his favour. With shame—for resentment was a