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Rh that she was waking. The silence recalled her to her actual wretchedness. Yes, Guido—the only friend, the only relative that she had on earth—lay there, in a foreign grave; and a vain but bitter regret passed through her mind, as she remembered the deep blue skies and the fertile soil of their own and lovely land. Perhaps he might have lived had he never left its genial soil, its dreaming atmosphere, for the colder clime and harsh realities which they had found in other countries. Strange that she took comfort in the knowledge, that the germ of the disease was with him from his birth—no circumstances could have altered, no care could have checked the hereditary tendency to consumption! Alas! it was best that he left so little to regret:—happy love and prosperous fortunes are hard to part with! One by one the charms of life had faded: he was sad and weary;—to Guido death was a release!

"Will you not come home?" said Lucy, who, together with her father was waiting beside.

"Dear Lucy!" exclaimed Francesca, "leave me to follow you; I am best by myself."

Her companion, whose own deepest thoughts were always indulged in solitude, understood Francesca's feelings, and drew her father away.

The young Italian listened to their departing