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Rh far-off scenes, gave him more encouragement than any other expression that she could have worn. Naturally impetuous, disappointment was to him better than suspense. They were alone on the terrace; and Francesca started from her dream of early and betrayed hopes, to hear the passionate avowal that was being uttered by her unsuspected lover.

Surprise for a moment kept her silent; but to surprise succeeded a bitter sense of regret. "Not to me," exclaimed she; "pray do not address these words to me; you cannot think how they are wasted."

"Do you love another?" asked De Candale, in an altered voice.

She hesitated; under any circumstances a woman is reluctant to own her affection—it is so difficult to say what it is so easy to feel; and in her place, how painful was the confession! How can the heart bear to own that it has been given, and in vain?

Again her silence was misunderstood. "I have been too sudden," whispered he, in a gentler tone; "only say that you will let me hope."

Francesca felt that not to speak now was, indeed, giving false encouragement; yet, scarcely could she command her words. She was so