As the door closed between them, she shook her head dubiously. '"Going
home this afternoon!' what does that signify? Has she been quarrelling
with that young lover of hers, or refusing him? I should not care to ask
any questions till she herself speaks; but I fear me something is
wrong."

She would not have feared, but been certain, could she have looked then
and there into the next room. She would have seen that the trouble was
something deeper than she dreamed. Francesca was sitting, her hands
supporting an aching head, her large eyes fixed mournfully and immovably
upon something which she seemed to contemplate with a relentless
earnestness, as though forcing herself to a distressing task. What was
this something? An image, a shadow in the air, which she had not evoked
from the empty atmosphere, but from the depths of her own nature and
soul,--the life and fate of a young girl. Herself! what cause, then, for
mournful scrutiny? She, so young, so brilliant, so beautiful, upon whom
fate had so kindly smiled, admired by many, tenderly and passionately
loved by at least one heart,--surely it was a delightful picture to
contemplate,--this life and its future; a picture to bring smiles to the
lips, rather than tears to the eyes.

Though, in fact, there were none dimming hers,--hot, dry eyes, full of
fever and pain. What visions passed before them? what shadows of the
life she inspected darkened them? what sunshine now and then fell upon
it, reflecting itself in them, as she leaned forward to scan these
bright spots, holding them in her gaze after other and gloomier ones had
taken their places, as one leans forth from window or doorway to behold,
long as possible, the vanishing form of some dear friend.

Looking at these, she cried out, "Fool! to have been so happy, and not