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Rh grave which had received youth, health, beauty,—all that made existence precious—long before. But when the blow comes down in the fulness of expectation; when the bough is smitten while green, and the flower cut down in its spring; when the young and lovely perish, while the eyes, full of light, were fixed on the future,—then, indeed, is the visitation heavy to bear. Alas for the home which they leave desolate—or the hearth beside which is their vacant place! We ask of destiny, Wherefore has it dealt so harshly by us? Why should our beloved one be chosen for the victim, while length of days is given to so many to whom existence is a void or a burden? "It was too soon to die," is the vain repining of many a fond heart mourning over the early lost. Existence has its ordinary allotment—why should ours be the cruel exception?

Francesca listened to the Duc de Mercœur pacing for hours his solitary apartment, or she watched the sleep of the orphan, trusted utterly to menial hands, and struggled fruitlessly to repress the constant thought,—"Why was not I taken?—what matters my worthless, my neglected being? Husband, child, kindred, friends—I have none of these to regret me: and Guido, poor Guido! ah, we should not have parted for long!"