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230 But the characteristic of English scenery is loveliness. We look for the verdant green of her fields, for the rich foliage of her luxuriant trees, for the colours of her wild and garden flowers, for daisies universal as hope, and for the cheerful hedges, so various in leaf and bud. Winter comes to us with gray mists and drizzling rains: now and then, for a day, the frost creates its own fragile and fairy world of gossamer; but not often. We see the desolate trees, bleak and bare; the dreary meadows, the withered gardens, and close door and window, to exclude the fog and the east wind.

Such a morning was it when Arden wound his way along the cheerless road. Twice or thrice he looked back; but suddenly he clapped spurs to his horse and rode on, as if in the determination of fixed resolve. A turn of the path shewed him once more; but immediately a group of trees intervened, and shut him for ever from Francesca's sight.

None in his native country ever saw Richard Arden again. He left his niece richly dowered; and months afterwards, they had a brief scroll, which told his fate—it was his last communication with his kind,—he had entered the abbey of La Trappe. Penance and vigil soon did the