troll about and look at the
busts and talk to each other. You would hardly know he was present, he
is such a very quiet person.'

Henrietta shook her head; and Mr. Temple could not urge the request.

Fate, however, had decided that Lord Montfort and Henrietta Temple
should become acquainted. She had more than once expressed a wish to
see the Campo Santo; it was almost the only wish that she had expressed
since she left England. Her father, pleased to find that anything could
interest her, was in the habit of reminding her of this desire, and
suggesting that she should gratify it. But there was ever an excuse for
procrastination. When the hour of exertion came, she would say, with a
faint smile, 'Not to-day, dearest papa;' and then, arranging her shawl,
as if even in this soft clime she shivered, composed herself upon that
sofa which now she scarcely ever quitted.

And this was Henrietta Temple! That gay and glorious being, so full of
graceful power and beautiful energy, that seemed born for a throne,
and to command a nation of adoring subjects! What are those political
revolutions, whose strange and mighty vicissitudes we are ever dilating
on, compared with the moral mutations that are passing daily under our
own eye; uprooting the hearts of families, shattering to pieces
domestic circles, scattering to the winds the plans and prospects of a
generation, and blasting as with a mildew the ripening harvest of long
cherished affection!

'It is here that I would be buried,' said Henrietta Temple.

They were standing, the father and the daughter, in the Campo Santo. She
had been gayer that morning; her father had seized a happy moment, and
she had gone forth, to visit the dead.

That vast and cloistered cemetery was silent and undisturbed; not a
human being was there, save themselves and the keeper. The sun shone
brightly on the austere and ancient frescoes, and Henrietta stood
opposite that beautiful sarcophagus, that seemed prepared and fitting to
receive her destined ashes.

'It is here that I would be buried,' said she.

Her father almost unconsciously turned his head to gaze upon the
countenance of his daughter, to see if there were indeed reason that she
should talk of death. That countenance was changed since the moment
we first feebly attempted to picture it. That flashing eye had lost
something of its brilliancy, that superb form something of its roundness
and its stag-like state; the crimson glory of that m