It was, indeed, a case of singular calamity for a beautiful young creature to be placed in.  She was only in her three-and-twentieth year—­and, lovely as she was, nature had scarcely had time to finish the picture.  The regrets which subdued my mind on that fatal morning may only be conceived by those who, like me, have led a licentious life—­have, for a time, buried all moral and religious feeling, and have been suddenly called to a full sense of their guilt, and the misery they have entailed on the innocent.  I sat down and groaned.  I cannot say I wept, for I could not weep; but my forehead burned, and my heart was full of bitterness.

While I thus meditated, Eugenia sat with her hand on her forehead, in a musing attitude.  Had she been reverting to her former studies, and thrown herself into the finest conceivable posture of the tragic muse, her appearance would not have been half so beautiful and affecting.  I thought she was praying, and I think so still.  The tears ran in silence down her face; I kissed them off, and almost forgot Emily.

“I am better now, Frank,” said the poor, sorrowful woman; “do not come again until after the wedding.  When will it take place?” she inquired, with a trembling and a faltering voice.

My heart almost burst within me, as I told her, for I felt as if I was signing a warrant for her execution.  I took her in my arms, and, tenderly embracing her, endeavoured to divert her thoughts from the mournful fate that too evidently hung over her; she became tranquil, and I proposed taking a stroll in the adjoining park.  I thought the fresh air would revive her.

She agreed to this; and, going to her room, returned in a few minutes.  To her natural beauty was added on that fatal day a morning dress, which more than any other became her; it was white, richly trimmed, and fashionably made up by a celebrated French milliner.  Her bonnet was white muslin, trimmed with light blue ribbons, and a sash of the same colour confined her slender waist.  The little Eugenio ran before us, now at my side, and now at his mother’s.  We rambled about for some time, the burthen of our conversation being the future plans and mode of education to be adopted for the child; this was a subject on which she always dwelt with peculiar pleasure.

Tired with our walk, we sat down under a clump of beech trees, near a grassy ascent, winding among the thick foliage, contrived by the opulent owner to extend and diversify the rides in his noble domain.  Eugenio was playing around us, picking the wild flowers, and running up to me to inquire their names.

The boy was close by my side, when, startled at a noise, he turned round and exclaimed—­

“Oh! look, mamma, look, papa, there is a lady and a gentleman a-riding.”