She would not have feared, but been certain, could she have looked then and there into the next room.  She would have seen that the trouble was something deeper than she dreamed.  Francesca was sitting, her hands supporting an aching head, her large eyes fixed mournfully and immovably upon something which she seemed to contemplate with a relentless earnestness, as though forcing herself to a distressing task.  What was this something?  An image, a shadow in the air, which she had not evoked from the empty atmosphere, but from the depths of her own nature and soul,—­the life and fate of a young girl.  Herself! what cause, then, for mournful scrutiny?  She, so young, so brilliant, so beautiful, upon whom fate had so kindly smiled, admired by many, tenderly and passionately loved by at least one heart,—­surely it was a delightful picture to contemplate,—­this life and its future; a picture to bring smiles to the lips, rather than tears to the eyes.

Though, in fact, there were none dimming hers,—­hot, dry eyes, full of fever and pain.  What visions passed before them? what shadows of the life she inspected darkened them? what sunshine now and then fell upon it, reflecting itself in them, as she leaned forward to scan these bright spots, holding them in her gaze after other and gloomier ones had taken their places, as one leans forth from window or doorway to behold, long as possible, the vanishing form of some dear friend.

Looking at these, she cried out, “Fool! to have been so happy, and not to have known what the happiness meant, and that it was not for me,—­never for me! to have walked to the verge of an abyss,—­to have plunged in, thinking the path led to heaven.  Heaven for me! ah,—­I forgot,—­I forgot.  I let an unconscious bliss seize me, possess me, exclude memory and thought,—­lived in it as though it would endure forever.”

She got up and moved restlessly to and fro across the room, but presently came back to the seat she had abandoned, and to the inspection which, while it tortured her, she yet evidently compelled herself to pursue.

“Come,” she then said, “let us ask ourself some questions, constitute ourself confessor and penitent, and see what the result will prove.”

“Did you think fate would be more merciful to you than to others?”

“No, I thought nothing about fate.”

“Did you suppose that he loved you sufficiently to destroy ’an invincible barrier?’”

“I did not think of his love.  I remembered no barrier.  I only knew I was in heaven, and cared for naught beyond.”

“Do you see the barrier now?”

“I do—­I do.”

“Did he help you to behold it; to discover, or to remember it? did he, or did he not?”

“He did.  Too true,—­he did.”

“Does he love you?”

“I—­how should I know? his looks, his acts—­I never thought—­O Willie, Willie!”—­her voice going out in a little gasping sob.