trivial error, we may readily suppose that Lucy never for a moment
admitted the supposition that Clifford had been really guilty of gross
error or wilful crime. True that expressions in his letter were more
than suspicious; but there is always a charm in the candour of self-
condemnation. As it is difficult to believe the excellence of those
who praise themselves, so it is difficult to fancy those criminal who
condemn. What, too, is the process of a woman's reasoning? Alas! she
is too credulous a physiognomist. The turn of a throat, with her, is the
unerring token of nobleness of mind; and no one can be guilty of a sin
who is blessed with a beautiful forehead! How fondly, how fanatically
Lucy loved! She had gathered together a precious and secret hoard,--
a glove, a pen, a book, a withered rose-leaf,--treasures rendered
inestimable because he had touched them; but more than all, had she the
series of his letters,--from the first formal note written to her father,
meant for her, in which he answered an invitation, and requested Miss
Brandon's acceptance of the music she had wished to have, to the last
wild and, to her, inexplicable letter in which he had resigned her
forever. On these relics her eyes fed for hours; and as she pored over
them, and over thoughts too deep not only for tears but for all utterance
or conveyance, you might have almost literally watched the fading of her
rich cheek and the pining away of her rounded and elastic form.

It was just in such a mood that she was buried when her uncle knocked at
her door for admittance. She hurried away her treasures, and hastened to
admit and greet him.

"I have come," said he, smiling, "to beg the pleasure of your company for
an old friend who dines with us to-day. But, stay, Lucy, your hair is
ill-arranged. Do not let me disturb so important an occupation as your
toilette; dress yourself, my love, and join us."