!--what thou hast been from thy cradle, that shalt thou be to my
grave. I have not even the tenderness of a child to look to--the future
is all blank!"

Constance was yet half yielding to, half struggling with, these
thoughts, when Stainforth Radclyffe (to whom she was never denied) was
suddenly announced. Time, which, sooner or later, repays perseverance,
although in a deceitful coin, had brought to Radclyffe a solid earnest
of future honors. His name had risen high in the science of his country;
it was equally honoured by the many and the few; he had become a marked
man, one of whom all predicted a bright hereafter. He had not yet, it
is true, entered Parliament--usually the great arena in which English
reputations are won--but it was simply because he had refused to enter
it under the auspices of any patron; and his political knowledge, his
depths of thought, and his stern, hard, ambitious mind were not the less
appreciated and acknowledged. Between him and Constance friendship had
continued to strengthen, and the more so as their political sentiments
were in a great measure the same, although originating in different
causes--hers from passion, his from reflection.

Hastily Constance turned aside her face, and brushed away her tears,
as Radclyffe approached; and then seeming to busy herself amongst some
papers that lay scattered on her escritoire, and gave her an excuse
for concealing in part her countenance, she said, with a constrained
cheerfulness, "I am happy you are come to relieve my ennui; I have been
looking over letters, written so many years ago, that I have been forced
to remember how soon I shall cease to be young; no pleasant reflection
for any one, much less a woman."

"I am at a loss for a compliment in return, as you may suppose,"
answered Radclyffe; "but Lady Erpingham deserves a penance for even
hinting at the possibility of being ever less charming than she is; so I
shall hold my tongue."

"Alas!" said Constance, gravely, "how little, save the mere triumphs of
youth and beauty, is left to our sex! How much, nay, how entirely, in
all other and loftier objects, is our ambition walled in and fettered!
The human mind must have its aim, its aspiring; how can your sex blame
us, then, for being frivolous when no aim, no aspiring, save those of
frivolity, are granted us by society?"

"And is love frivolous?" said Radclyffe; "is the empire of the heart
nothing?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Constance, with ener