the tomb of the young and beautiful, and felt it had been opened by me, and that by no wilful crime, but by a change of feeling, over which I had no control. My first welcome, as I rode into our avenue, was waved by the black plumes of my father's hearse. I have ever held it as an omen. The fever is in my veins, and the death-damps on my brow. Do not, Edward, talk to me of active life."
Lorraine looked on the Earl. The dark chestnut of his hair was mixed with white, the fine outline of his features was sunk, and the whole expression was so spiritless, so sad, that though Edward, with all the soothing tenderness of affection, did not believe his health impaired to the extent of danger, yet could not help owning to himself, how little was he fitted to be one of the gladiators in social or political life.
Truly the history of most lives may be soon comprehended under three heads—our follies, our faults, and our misfortunes. And this, after all, was the summary of Lord Etheringhame's. His love was a fault, its termination a misfortune, and certainly his persisting in its regret was a folly. But there is nothing so easy as to be wise for others; a species of prodigality, by the by—for such wisdom is wholly wasted.
