sioned and burning kisses; then suddenly, as if stung by
some irresistible impulse, he tore himself away; and fled from the spot.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE WEAKNESS OF ALL VIRTUE SPRINGING ONLY FROM THE FEELINGS.

It was the evening before Godolphin left Rome. As he was entering his
palazzo he descried, in the darkness, and at a little distance, a figure
wrapped in a mantle, that reminded him of Lucilla;--ere he could certify
himself, it was gone.

On entering his rooms, he looked eagerly over the papers and notes on
his table: he seemed disappointed with the result, and sat himself down
in moody and discontented thought. He had written to Lucilla the day
before, a long, a kind, nay, a noble outpouring of his thoughts and
feelings. As far as he was able to one so simple in her experience, yet
so wild in her fancy, he explained to her the nature of his struggles
and his self-sacrifice. He did not disguise from her that, till the
moment of her confession, he had never examined the state of his heart
towards her; nor that, with that confession, a new and ardent train of
sentiment had been kindled within him. He knew enough of women to be
aware, that the last avowal would be the sweetest consolation both to
her vanity and her heart. He assured her of the promises he had received
from her relations to grant her the liberty and the indulgence that her
early and unrestrained habits required; and, in the most delicate and
respectful terms, he inclosed an order for a sum of money sufficient
at any time to command the regard of those with whom she lived, or to
enable her to choose, should she so desire (though he advised her not
to adopt such a measure, save for the most urgent reasons), another
residence. "Send me in return," he said, as he concluded, "a lock of
your hair. I want nothing to remind me of your beauty; but I want some
token of the heart of whose affection I am so mournfully proud. I will
wear it as a charm against the contamination of that world of which you
are so happily ignorant--as a memento of one nature beyond the thought
of self--as a surety that, in finding within this base and selfish
quarter of earth, one soul so warm, so pure as yours, I did not deceive
myself, and dream. If we ever meet again, may you have then found some
one happier than I am, and in his tenderness have forgotten all of me
save one kind remembrance.--Beautiful and dear Lucilla, adieu! If I have
not given way to the luxury of being