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Rh of love's childhood—precious for the sake of the many illusions in which we then held such devout evidence. We grow too stern and too cold for such trifles in after-life. The harsh grasp of reality has been upon the most delicate feelings; trifles "light as air" have become important in their results; and where we do not fear, we now do not care for them, unless it be to ridicule—ridicule, that blight of all that is warm and true, but which was so utterly to the fresh unknown world of the yet undeveloped heart.

The day had been intensely hot, and, in Guido's weak state, it overpowered the little strength which he had left; but towards evening he grew even more feverish, his senses wandered, and strong spasms of pain alone seemed to recall him to his actual existence. The recollection of that interview with Marie Mancini haunted him. He fancied she was coming, would start at the least noise, and asked mournfully if he was to die without seeing her.

Francesca sought every means to soothe him, but in vain. Even her sweet and beloved voice fell unheeded on his ear; and it was late before, quite worn out, he fell into a deep slumber.

There was a strange character of mournful beauty flung over the scene passing in that chamber