after anything new, and Madame
Liehbur became at once the rage.--I myself have seen a minister hurrying
from her door with his cloak about his face; and one of the coldest of
living sages confesses that she told him what he believes, by mere human
means, she could not have discovered. Delusion all! But what age is free
from it?

The race of the nineteenth century boast their lights, but run as madly
after any folly as their fathers in the eighth. What are the prophecies
of St. Simon but a species of sorcery? Why believe the external more
than the inner miracle?

* * * * *

There were but a few persons present at Lady Erpingham's, and when
Radclyffe entered, Madame Liehbur was the theme of the general
conversation. So many anecdotes were told, so much that was false was
mingled with so much that seemed true, that Lady Erpingham's curiosity
was excited, and she resolved to seek the modern Cassandra with the
first opportunity. Godolphin sat apart from the talkers playing a quiet
game at ecarte. Constance's eyes stole ever and anon to his countenance;
and when she turned at length away with a sigh, she saw that Radclyffe's
deep and inscrutable gaze was bent upon her, and the proud countess
blushed, although she scarce knew why.

CHAPTER LVIII.

THE EMPIRE OF TIME AND OF LOVE.--THE PROUD CONSTANCE GROWN WEARY AND
HUMBLE.--AN ORDEAL.

About this time the fine constitution of Lady Erpingham began to feel
the effects of that life which, at once idle and busy, is the most
exhausting of all. She suffered under no absolute illness; she was free
from actual pain; but a fever crept over her at night, and a languid
debility succeeded it the next day. She was melancholy and dejected;
tears came into her eyes without a cause; a sudden noise made her
tremble; her nerves were shaken,--terrible disease, which marks a new
epoch in life, which is the first token that our youth is about to leave
us!

It is in sickness that we feel our true reliance on others, especially
if it is of that vague and not dangerous character when those around
us are not ashamed or roused into attendance; when the care, and the
soothing, and the vigilance, are the result of that sympathy which true
and deep love only feels. This thought broke upon Constance as she sat
alone one morning in that mood when books cannot amuse, nor music lull,
nor luxury soothe--the mood of an aching memory and a spiritless frame.
Above her, and ov