sombre and breathless calm
hung over the deepening eve. The pines, those gloomy children of the
forest, which shed something of melancholy and somewhat of sternness
over the brighter features of an Italian landscape, drooped heavily in
the breezeless air. As she came on the border of the lake, its waves
lay dark and voiceless; only, at intervals, the surf, fretting along the
pebbles made a low and dreary sound, or from the trees some lingering
songster sent forth a shrill and momentary note, and then again all
became

"An atmosphere without a breath, A silence sleeping there."

There was a spot where the trees, receding in a ring, left some bare
and huge fragments of stone uncovered by verdure. It was the only spot
around that rich and luxuriant scene that was not in harmony with the
soft spirit of the place: might I indulge a fanciful comparison, I
should say that it was like one desolate and grey remembrance in the
midst of a career of pleasure. On this spot Godolphin now stood alone,
looking along the still and purple waters that lay before him. Lucilla,
with a light step, climbed the rugged stones, and, touching his
shoulder, reproached him with a tender playfulness for his truancy.

"Lucilla," said he, when peace was restored, "what impressions does
this dreary and prophetic pause of nature before the upgathering of the
storm, create in you? Does it inspire you with melancholy, or thought,
or fear?"

"I see my star," answered Lucilla, pointing to a far and solitary orb,
which hung islanded in a sea of cloud, that swept slowly and blackly
onward:--"I see my star, and I think more of that little light than of
the darkness around it."

"But it will presently be buried among the clouds," said Godolphin,
smiling at that superstition which Lucilla had borrowed from her father.

"But the clouds pass away, and the star endures."

"You are of a sanguine nature, my Lucilla." Lucilla sighed.

"Why that sigh, dearest?"

"Because I am thinking how little even those who love us most know
of us! I never tell my disquiet and sorrow. There are times when thou
wouldst not think me too warmly addicted to hope!"

"And what, poor idler, have you to fear?"

"Hast thou never felt it possible that thou couldst love me less?"

"Never!"

Lucilla raised her large searching eyes, and gazed eagerly on his face;
but in its calm features and placid brow she saw no ground for augury,
whether propitious or evil. She turned aw