every wave on which the star of passion beams,
breaks the lustre into different refractions of light.

As one day she was turning listlessly over some books that had been put
aside by Godolphin in a closet, and hoping to find one that contained,
as sometimes happened, his comments or at least his marks--she
was somewhat startled to find among them several volumes which she
remembered to have belonged to her father. Godolphin had bought them
after Volktman's death, and put them by as relics of his singular
friend, and as samples of the laborious and selfwilled aberration of the
human intellect.

Few among these works could Lucilla comprehend, for they were chiefly in
other tongues than the only two with which she was acquainted. But some,
among which were manuscripts by her father, beautifully written, and
curiously ornamented (some of the chief works on the vainer sciences
are only to be found in manuscript), she could contrive to decipher by
a little assistance from her memory, in recalling the signs and
hieroglyphics which her father had often explained to her, and, indeed,
caused her to copy out for him in his calculations. Always possessing an
untaxed and unquestioned belief in the astral powers, she now took some
interest in reading of their mysteries. Her father, secretly, perhaps,
hoping to bequeath his name to the gratitude of some future Hermes,
had in his manuscripts reduced into a system many scattered theories of
others, and many dogmas of his own. Over these, for they were simpler
and easier than the crabbed and mystical speculations in the printed
books, she more especially pored; and she was not sorry at finding fresh
reasons for her untutored adoration of the stars and apparitions of the
heavens.

Still, however, these bewildering researches made but a small part,
comparatively speaking, of the occupation of her thoughts. To write to,
and hear from, Godolphin had become to her more necessary than ever, and
her letters were fuller and more minute in their details of love than
even in the period of their first passion. Wouldst thou know if the
woman thou lovest still loves thee, trust not her spoken words, her
present smiles; examine her letters in absence, see if she dwells, as
she once did, upon trifles--but trifles relating to thee. The things
which the indifferent forget are among the most treasured meditations of
love.

But Lucilla was not satisfied with the letters--frequent as they
were--that s