and yet," sinking her voice into a tone of ineffable and plaintive
sweetness--"yet I have slept on his bosom, and been dear and sacred to
him as thou! Go, proud lady, go!--leave me to my mad, and sunken, and
solitary state. Go!"

"Dear Lucilla!" said Constance, kindly, and striving once more to take
her hand, "do not cast me away from you. I have long sympathised with
your generous although erring heart--your bard and bitter misfortunes.
Look on me only as your friend--nay, your sister, if you will. Let me
persuade you to leave this strange and desultory life; choose your own
home: I am rich to overflowing; all you can desire shall be at your
command. He shall not know more of you unless (to assuage the remorse
that the memory of you does, I know, still occasion him) you will suffer
him to learn, from your own hand, that you are well and at ease, and that
you do not revoke your former pardon. Come, dear Lucilla!" and the arm
of the generous and bright-souled Constance gently wound round the feeble
frame of Lucilla, who now, reclining back, wept as if her heart would
break.

"Come, give me the deep, the grateful joy of thinking I can minister to
your future comforts. I was the cause of all your wretchedness; but for
me, Godolphin would have been yours for ever--would probably, by marriage,
have redressed your wrongs; but for me you would not have wandered an
outcast over the inhospitable world. Let me in something repair what I
have cost you. Speak to me, Lucilla!"

"Yes, I will speak to you," said poor Lucilla, throwing herself on the
ground, and clasping with grateful warmth the knees of her gentle soother;
"for long, long years--I dare not think how many--I have not heard the
voice of kindness fall upon my ear. Among strange faces and harsh tongues