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318 through the adjacent woods; their unbroken confidence; their constant union of interests; that future which they always painted together, but now so utterly separated. Not one word of unkindness, nor even of coldness, had ever passed between them; there was not a single recollection unstamped by affection. Love, which so often rends asunder the gentler ties of domestic attachment, had only drawn theirs more closely; each had had such cause to value the deep and true sympathy of the other. As these remembrances arose, Francesca's tears flowed the more bitterly; and the very consciousness that they flowed in vain—that never tear nor prayer could bring back breath to those beloved lips, or light to those once watchful eyes, gave them but added agony.

The vanity of weeping, which in time works out its own consolation, is at first but the aggravation of sorrow. Still, grief exhausts its expression; and Francesca at length raised her eyes,—she would look once more upon her brother; and again the very thought—"Once more!"—subdued her into a fresh burst of tears. It was long before she could compose herself sufficiently to gaze upon the face; but when she did at length command herself to turn towards the pillow, it was strange how sorrow became merged in awe.