broken leg in the next. Is the broken leg the worse for it? No; but the
three men are made merry by the jest. Is the jest wicked, then? Nay,
it is benevolence. But some cry, 'Ay, but this habit of disregarding
misfortunes blunts your wills when you have the power to relieve them.'
Relieve! was ever such delusion? What can we relieve in the vast mass of
human misfortunes? As well might we take a drop from the ocean, and cry,
'Ha, ha! we have lessened the sea!' What are even your public charities?
what your best institutions? How few of the multitude are relieved at
all; how few of that few relieved permanently! Men die, suffer, starve
just as soon, and just as numerously; these public institutions are only
trees for the public conscience to go to roost upon. No, my dear fellow,
everything I see in the world says, Take care of thyself. This is
the true moral of life; every one who minds it gets on, thrives, and
fattens; they who don't, come to us to borrow money, if gentlemen; or
fall upon the parish, if plebeians. I mind it, my dear Godolphin; I
have minded it all my life; I am very contented--content is the sign of
virtue,--ah,--bah!"

Yes; Constance was a widow. The hand of her whom Percy Godolphin had
loved so passionately, and whose voice even now thrilled to his inmost
heart, and awakened the echoes that had slept for years, it was once
more within her power to bestow, and within his to demand. What a host
of emotions this thought gave birth to! Like the coming of the Hindoo
god, she had appeared, and lo, there was a new world! "And her look,"
he thought, "was kind, her voice full of a gentle promise, her agitation
was visible. She loves me still. Shall I fly to her feet? Shall I press
for hope? And, oh what, what happiness!----but Lucilla!"

This recollection was indeed a barrier that never failed to present
itself to every prospect of hope and joy which the image of Constance
coloured and called forth. Even for the object of his first love, could
he desert one who had forsaken all for him, whose life was wrapt up
in his affection? The very coolness with which he was sensible he had
returned the attachment of this poor girl made him more alive to the
duties he owed her. If not bound to her by marriage, he considered
with a generosity--barely, in truth, but justice, yet how rare in the
world--that the tie between them was sacred, that only death could
dissolve it. And now that tie was, perhaps, all that held him f