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302 of death—one that a painter would have chosen when, disappointed with the world, and smitten by some deep sorrow, he seeks refuge in the lovely creations of his art, selecting a melancholy subject, and investing it with the gloom felt within. At the far extremity of the room, placed on a little round table, was a lamp, whose red gleam made a small bright circle on the wall, as if to enhance the darkness which surrounded it. Drawn towards the window was the bed whereon Guido was laid. The curtains were all flung back to admit the air, and the lattices were thrown open to the utmost. The long tendrils and slender leaves of the honeysuckle formed a dark outline, just pencilled on the air, and swayed gently to and fro; for a soft wind agitated the boughs. The moon, directly opposite, flung into the room a long and tremulous line of light, which fell on Guido's face, as he reclined on the pillows which supported his head; he needed the support, for a feeling of suffocation was his constant complaint. It was the face of a statue—so pure, so pale, with the features transparent, like the delicate carving of highly polished marble; the long dark lash resting on the cheek, and the thick curls upon the brow, were the sole likeness to humanity. One emaciated hand lay on the counterpane, the other