red Constance, whom I shall never see
more, for these wild words--this momentary weakness. Farewell! Whatever
becomes of me, may God give you all His blessings!

"One word more--no, I will not close this letter yet! You remember that
you once gave me a flower--years ago. I have preserved its leaves to
this day; but I will give no indulgence to a folly that will now wrong
you, and be unworthy of myself. I will send you back those leaves: let
them plead for me, as the memories of former days. I must break off
now, for I can literally write no more. I must go forth and recover my
self-command. And oh! may she whom I seek to-morrow--whose unsuspecting
heart admonished by temptation, I will watch over, guide, and shield
far, far more zealously than I have yet done--never know what it has
cost me, not to abandon and betray her."

And Lucilla read over every word of this letter! How wholly impossible
it is for language to express the agony, the hopeless, irremediable
despair that deepened within her as she proceeded to the end! Everything
that life had, or could ever have had for her, of common peace or joy,
was blasted for ever! As she came to the last word, she bowed her head
in silence over the writing, and felt as if some mighty rock had fallen
upon her heart, and crushed it to dust. Had the letter breathed but
one unkind--one slighting expression of her, it would have been some
comfort--some rallying point, however forlorn and wretched; but this
cruel tenderness--this bitter generosity!

And before she had read that letter, how joyously, how breathlessly she
had anticipated rushing to her lover's breast! It seems incredible
that the space of a few minutes should suffice to blight a whole
existence--blacken without a ray of hope an entire future!

She was aroused by the sound of steps, though in another apartment; she
would not now have met Godolphin for worlds; the thought of his return
alone gave her the power of motion. She thrust the fatal letter into
her bosom; and then, in characters surprisingly distinct and clear, she
wrote her name, and placed that writing in the stead of the epistle she
took away. She judged rightly, that that single name would suffice to
say all she could not then say. Having done this, she rose, left the
room, and stole softly and unperceived into the open street.

Unconscious and careless whither she went, she hurried on, her eyes bent
on the ground, and concealing her form and face with h