inement.

On the day that she wrote that letter to Godolphin which I have
transcribed, this painful tension of the nerves was more than hitherto
acute. She longed to fly somewhere; nay, once or twice, she remembered
that Rome was easily gained, that she might be there as expeditiously as
her letter. Although in that letter only we have signified that Lucilla
had expressed her wish for Godolphin's return; yet, in all her later
letters, she had (perhaps, more timidly) urged that desire. But they had
not taken the same hold on Godolphin; nor, while he was playing with his
danger, had they produced the same energetic resolution. Lucilla could
not, however, hope with much reason that the success of her present
letter would be greater than that of her former ones; and, at all
events, she did not anticipate an immediate compliance with her prayers.
She looked forward to some excuses, and to some delay. We cannot,
therefore, wonder that she felt a growing desire to follow her own
epistle to Rome; and although she had been prevented before, and still
drew back from absolutely favoring and enforcing the idea, by the fear
of Godolphin's displeasure; yet she trusted enough to his gentleness of
character to feel sure that the displeasure could scarcely be lasting.
Still the step was bold, and Lucilla loved devotedly enough to be timid;
and besides, her inexperience made her look upon the journey as a far
more formidable expedition than it really was.

Debating the notion in her mind, she sought her usual retreat, and
turned listlessly over the books which she had so lately loved to study.
At length, in moving one she had not looked into before, a paper fell to
the ground; she picked it up; it was the paper containing that figure,
which it will be remembered, the astrologer had shown to his daughter,
as a charm to produce dreams prophetic of any circumstance or person
concerning whom the believer might be anxious to learn aught. As she saw
the image, which, the reader will recollect, was of a remarkable design,
the whole of her conversation with Volktman on the subject rushed into
her mind, and she resolved that very night to prove the efficacy of
the charm on which he had so confidently insisted. Fraught with the
chimerical delusion, she now longed for the hours to pass, and the
night to come. She looked again and again at the singular image and the
portentous figures wrought upon the charm; the very strangeness of
the characters i