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290 short-lived and delicate perfume which exhales from the early blossoms of the grape. She had fried an omelet, fragrant with aromatic herbs; and her father filled a pitcher with claret, of the colour of the ruby, and the coolness of the pearl. The sun set into one of those beautiful and purple evenings, which Langhorne has depicted as sweetly as poet well could— when Edward bent his steps to take a last look at a place haunted by Beatrice's earliest years, and of which every record would, he rightly deemed, be so precious to her memory. Time destroys not half so ruthlessly as man. The roof was entirely gone—only a rude skeleton of the house remained in the scorched and falling walls—a few traces of the black and white pavement were still left near one of the windows. It had been Beatrice's favourite seat, for the sake of a vine which had clustered luxuriantly round. Great part of the tree had been burnt—a few green shoots were now expanding, but they trailed upon the ground. A large oak had been entirely burnt; and this, with the destruction of some smaller trees, had