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222 her; "we should very much dislike coming in contact with strangers just now."

"None of the family are there," replied Lucy; "As Mr. Evelyn went to Ireland the very day after Sir Robert's burial."

At this moment Guido, who knew how disagreeable the subject must be to his sister, drew their attention to those golden slants of sunshine which seem to come so direct from heaven to earth,—bright and vapoury ladders,—fitting steps for our vain wishes to mount above; and just then so distinct from the dark mass of shadow flung from the deep forest in the distance. This turned the conversation, and the topic was never again renewed; for Francesca carefully avoided aught that could bring on any mention of the Evelyns; and Lucy had her own secret consciousness, which, by keeping a subject constantly in the mind, often prevents all allusion to it.

Lucy was still in the early and golden time of affection—vague, visionary, and believing. She never dreamed that in her lover was the greatest obstacle to their happiness. No remembrance of falsehood was treasured bitterly in her memory—a warning for the future which we are better without; for what avails distrust? It only deprives us of life's greatest enjoyment—being deceived.