for the most celebrated physician in London--that polished and courtly man
who seems born for the maladies of the drawing-room, but who beneath so
urbane a demeanour, conceals so accurate and profound a knowledge of the
disorders of his unfortunate race. I say accurate and profound
comparatively, for positive knowledge of pathology is what no physician in
modern times and civilized countries really possesses. No man cures
us--the highest art is not to kill! Constance, then, sent for this
physician, and, as delicately as possible, related the unfortunate state
of Lucilla, and the deep anxiety she felt for her mental and bodily
relief. The physician promised to call the next day; he did so, late in
the afternoon--Lucilla was gone. Strange, self-willed, mysterious, she
came like a dream, to warn, to terrify, and to depart. They knew not
whither she had fled, and her Moorish handmaid alone attended her.

Constance was deeply chagrined at this intelligence; for she had already
begun to build castles in the air, which poor Lucilla, with a frame
restored, and a heart at ease, and nothing left of the past but a soft and
holy penitence, should inhabit. The countess, however, consoled herself
with the hope that Lucilla would at least write to her, and mention her
new place of residence; but days passed and no letter came.

Constance felt that her benevolent intentions were doomed to be
unfulfilled. She was now greatly perplexed whether or not to relate to
Godolphin the interview that had taken place between her and Lucilla. She
knew the deep, morbid, and painful interest which the memory of this wild
and visionary creature created in Godolphin; and she trembled at the
feeling she might re-awaken by even a faint picture of the condition and
mental infirmities of her whose life he had so darkly shadowed. She
resolved, therefore, at all events for the present, and until every hope
of discovering Lucilla once more had expired, to conceal the meeting that