ng seemed gone; an unquiet and melancholy spirit was loosened
abroad, and the chill of the sudden change which is so frequent to
our climate, came piercingly upon them. Godolphin was silent for some
moments, for the thought found a sympathy in his own.

"And is it truly so?" he said at last; "is there really to be no
permanent happiness for us below? Is pain always to tread the heels of
pleasure? Are we never to say the harbour is reached, and we are
safe? No, my Constance," he added, warming into the sanguine vein that
traversed even his most desponding moods, "no! let us not cherish this
dark belief; there is no experience for the future; one hour lies to the
next; if what has been seem thus chequered, it is no type of what may
be. We have discovered in each other that world that was long lost to
our eyes; we cannot lose it again; death only can separate us!"

"Ah, death!" said Constance, shuddering.

"Do not recoil at that word, my Constance, for we are yet in the noon of
life; why bring, like the Egyptian, the spectre to the feast? And, after
all, if death come while we thus love, it is better than change and
time--better than custom which palls--better than age which chills. Oh!"
continued Godolphin, passionately, "oh! if this narrow shoal and sand of
time be but a breathing-spot in the great heritage of immortality,
why cheat ourselves with words so vague as life and death? What is the
difference? At most, the entrance in and the departure from one scene
in our wide career. How many scenes are left to us! We do but hasten our
journey, not close it. Let us believe this, Constance, and cast from us
all fear of our disunion."

As he spoke, Constance's eyes were fixed upon his face, and the deep
calm that reigned there sank into her soul, and silenced its murmurs.
The thought of futurity is that which Godolphin (because it is so with
all idealists) must have revolved with the most frequent fervour; but it
was a thought which he so rarely touched upon, that it was the first and
only time Constance ever heard it breathed from his lips.

They turned into the house; and the mark is still in that page of the
volume which they read, where the melodious accents of Godolphin died
upon the heart of Constance. Can she ever turn to it again?

CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE LAST CONVERSATION BETWEEN GODOLPHIN AND CONSTANCE.--HIS THOUGHTS
AND SOLITARY WALK AMIDST THE SCENES OF HIS YOUTH.--THE LETTER.--THE
DEPARTURE.

They had