knew not at all that the delicious and excited sentiment which filled her
being could ever become as productive of evil and peril as it had done
now; and even had her reason been more developed, and her resolutions
more strong, does the exertion of reason and resolution always avail
against the master passion? Love, it is true, is not unconquerable; but
how few have ever, mind and soul, coveted the conquest! Disappointment
makes a vow, but the heart records it not. Or in the noble image of one
who has so tenderly and so truly portrayed the feelings of her own sex,--

"We make
A ladder of our thoughts where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot!"
[The History of the Lyre, by L. E. L.]

Before Clifford had last seen her, we have observed that Lucy had (and it
was a consolation) clung to the belief that, despite of appearances and
his own confession, his past life had not been such as to place him
without the pale of her just affections; and there were frequent moments
when, remembering that the death of her father had removed the only being
who could assert an unanswerable claim to the dictation of her actions,
she thought that Clifford, hearing her hand was utterly at her own
disposal, might again appear, and again urge a suit which he felt so few
circumstances could induce her to deny. All this half-acknowledged yet
earnest train of reasoning and hope vanished from the moment he had
quitted her uncle's house. His words bore no misinterpretation. He had
not yielded even to her own condescension, and her cheek burned as she
recalled it. Yet he loved her. She saw, she knew it in his every word
and look! Bitter, then, and dark must be that remorse which could have
conquered every argument but that which urged him to leave her, when he
might have claimed her forever. True, that when his letter formally bade