I am very contented--content is the sign of virtue,--ah,--bah!"

Yes; Constance was a widow. The hand of her whom Percy Godolphin had
loved so passionately, and whose voice even now thrilled to his inmost
heart, and awakened the echoes that had slept for years, it was once more
within her power to bestow, and within his to demand. What a host of
emotions this thought gave birth to! Like the coming of the Hindoo god,
she had appeared, and lo, there was a new world! "And her look," he
thought, "was kind, her voice full of a gentle promise, her agitation was
visible. She loves me still. Shall I fly to her feet? Shall I press for
hope? And, oh what, what happiness!----but Lucilla!"

This recollection was indeed a barrier that never failed to present itself
to every prospect of hope and joy which the image of Constance coloured
and called forth. Even for the object of his first love, could he desert
one who had forsaken all for him, whose life was wrapt up in his
affection? The very coolness with which he was sensible he had returned
the attachment of this poor girl made him more alive to the duties he owed
her. If not bound to her by marriage, he considered with a
generosity--barely, in truth, but justice, yet how rare in the world--that
the tie between them was sacred, that only death could dissolve it. And
now that tie was, perhaps, all that held him from attaining the dream of
his past life.

Absorbed in these ideas, Godolphin contrived to let Saville's
unsympathising discourse glide unheeded along, without reflecting its
images on the sense, until the name of Lady Erpingham again awakened his
attention.

"You are going to her this evening," said Saville; "and you may thank me