proaches the source whence it came, and becomes more heavenly as it draws nigh to its birth-place—heaven.
With an earnest and fearful fondness Guido thought of his sister. Ah! Death had still his sting and his victory, when such a parting would be his work. Guido, which is not usual in his most insidious disease, was aware of his danger; perhaps the wish gave rise to the belief, for he wished to die—but not when he thought of Francesca. How often in the silence of the midnight hour, when he turned upon the feverish bed of his unrest, and watched the stars shine through the lattice, while he longed to mingle with their rays, and casting away the wearied and painful body, be free and spiritual as the pure element which they lighted—how often, even then, would Francesca's pale and sorrowful face rise before him, and create the vain desire to live a little longer for her sake! Could he have only seen her safe in her father's home, and have known her prized and loved as she deserved to be, he could have died content, ay, thankful; but to leave her so desolate, so lonely, was a thought that cast its darkness on the very face of heaven.
But the buds now putting forth on every branch would not more surely open into flower
