had disappeared before the awakenings of the spiritual life, which is dulled and distracted by the daily cares and fretfulness of ordinary existence. Sometimes a mist arose upon their placid brightness—while yet here, the soul must be troubled; and when he met Francesca's sad and anxious look, all the tenderness of our struggling life returned upon him—and with tenderness ever comes bitterness. He had no tears for himself—he had them only for her. Yet, as he approached the grave, he looked beyond it; there they met again, and to part no more. What were a few brief years to one whose hope was in eternity?
But Francesca, in whom life was too warm and active to feel that calm which is ever the herald of gradually coming death, could only dwell on their separation—the reunion was too far off for comfort—the great and present grief darkened the distant hope. The approach of the fragrant and verdant spring was torture to her. The whole atmosphere seemed instinct with life—the thickets, golden with furze, were all musical with the melodious plying of the bees' industrious wings; the forest was alive with birds, scattering the sunshine as they fluttered through the leaves; the grass swarmed with myriads of insects; shoals of bright-scaled fish rose like rainbows to the sur-
