Grief, the swift anticipator of time, continued to prey on Geraldine’s youthful cheek. Her decay was visible to every beholder. But Lucy Evans, still listening to the flattery of hope, believed that another and another day would bring the desired amendment. Passionately admiring the beauties of nature, she wooed the tardy spring to approach, and continued to repeat the well-known description;

– Airs, vernal airs, Able to cure all sadness but despair. 475 /

Despair was, however, the mortal disease, under which her friend laboured. Like Shenstone’s interesting Jessy, 476 she saw in every object some reproach of her folly, or some memento of her former happiness. ‘What have I,’ she would say to herself, ‘to do with hope; and what without hope is life?’