Hypochondria has that wont, to rise in the midst of thousands--dark as Doom, pale as Malady, and well-nigh strong as Death.

Her comrade and victim thinks to be happy one moment--"Not so," says she; "I come." And she freezes the blood in his heart, and beclouds the light in his eye.
Some might say it was the foreign crown pressing the King's brows which bent them to that peculiar and painful fold; some might quote the effects of early bereavement.

Something there might be of both these; but these are embittered by that darkest foe of humanity--constitutional melancholy.

The Queen, his wife, knew this: it seemed to me, the reflection of her husband's grief lay, a subduing shadow, on her own benignant face.

A mild, thoughtful, graceful woman that princess seemed; not beautiful, not at all like the women of solid charms and marble feelings described a page or two since.