ritten
her name alone met his eye. While yet stunned and amazed, his servant
and Lucilla's entered: in a few moments he had learned all they had
to tell him; the rest Lucilla's handwriting did indeed sufficiently
explain. He comprehended all; and, in a paroxysm of alarm and remorse,
he dispersed his servants, and hurried himself in search of her. He went
to the house of her relations; they had not seen or heard of her. It was
now night, and every obstacle in the way of his search presented itself.
Not a clue could be traced; or, sometimes following a description that
seemed to him characteristic, he chased, and found some wanderer--how
unlike Lucilla! Towards daybreak he returned home, after a vain and
weary search; and his only comfort was in learning from her attendant
that she had about her a sum of money which he knew would in Italy
always purchase safety and attention. Yet, alone, at night, in the
streets,--so utter a stranger as she was to the world,--so young and
so lovely--he shuddered, he gasped for breath at the idea. Might she
destroy herself? That hideous question forced itself upon him; he could
not exclude it: he trembled when he recalled her impassioned and keen
temper; and when, in remembering the tone and words of his letter
to Constance, he felt how desperate a pang every sentence must have
inflicted upon her. And, indeed, even his imagination could not
equal the truth, when it attempted to sound the depths of her wounded
feelings. He only returned home to sally out again. He now employed
the police, and those most active and vigilant agents that at Rome are
willing to undertake all enterprises;--he could not but feel assured of
discovering her.

Still, however, noon--evening came on, and no tidings. As he once more
returned home, in the faint hope that some intelligence might await him
there, his servant hurried eagerly out to him with a letter--it was from
Lucilla, and it was worthy of her: give it to the reader.

LUCILLA'S LETTER.

"I have read your letter to another! Are not these words sufficient to
tell you all? All? no! you never, never, never can tell how crushed and
broken my heart is. Why?--because you are a man, and because you have
never loved as I loved. Yes, Godolphin, I knew that I was not one whom
you could love. I am a poor, ignorant, untutored girl, with nothing at
my heart but a great world of love which I could never tell. Thou saidst
I could not comprehend thee: alas! ho