siness, during which the delusive power had transported her to scenes afar off—for sleep reverses all other rules, and its dominion is greatest where its influence is least. It is the lightest slumber that is most haunted with visionary creations. She awakened with sudden consciousness—the myrtle groves of her childhood yet around her, and the voices of her young companions still glad in her ear. Then came the wonder and confusion attendant on fancies disappearing before realities;—"Where am I?" is the first idea of the roused sleeper. Gradually the darkened room seems to emerge from its shadows; familiar objects strike upon the senses—and memory is never so terribly distinct as on its first reviving from such momentary lethargy.
In an instant Francesca would become perfectly collected—every past event would stand out singularly clear, and she would turn, take one look at Guido, and then breathe again. One idea was ever uppermost; she might gaze upon his face, and find that life had departed even during that short lull of forgetfulness! Alas! the weakness of the body is triumphant in a long struggle over both strong love and will; and yet, during the months that Francesca watched beside that bed of death, never, for five minutes together,
