ted the haughtiness and the elastic freshness
of her beauty. "Mr. Godolphin," she repeated, after a pause, "answer
me truly and with candour; not with the world's gallantry, but with a
sincere, a plain avowal. Were you not--in your unguarded expressions
last night--were you not excited by the surprise, the passion, of the
moment? Were you not uttering what, had you been actuated only by a calm
and premeditated prudence, you would at least have suppressed?"

"Miss Vernon," replied Godolphin, "all that I said last night, I now,
in calmness, and with deliberate premeditation, repeat: all that I can
dream of happiness is in your hands."

"I would, indeed, that I could disbelieve you," said Constance,
sorrowfully; "I have considered deeply on your words. I am touched--made
grateful--proud--yes, truly proud--by your confessed affection--but--"

"Oh, Constance!" cried Godolphin; in a sudden and agonized voice--and
rising, he flung himself impetuously at her feet--"Constance! do not
reject me!"

He seized her hand: it struggled not with his. He gazed on her
countenance: it was dyed in blushes; and before those blushes vanished,
her agitation found relief in tears, which flowed fast and full.

"Beloved!" said Godolphin, with a solemn tenderness, "why struggle with
your heart? That heart I read at this moment: _that_ is not averse to
me." Constance wept on. "I know what you would say, and what you feel,"
continued Godolphin: "you think that I--that we both are poor: that you
could ill bear the humiliations of that haughty poverty which those born
to higher fortunes so irksomely endure. You tremble to link your fate
with one who has been imprudent--lavish--selfish, if you will. You
recoil before you intrust your happiness to a man who, if he wreck that,
can offer you nothing in return: no rank--no station--nothing to heal
a bruised heart, or cover its wound, at least, in the rich disguises of
power and wealth. Am I not right, Constance? Do I not read your mind?"

"No!" said Constance with energy. "Had I been born any man's daughter,
but his from whom I take my name; were I the same in all things, mind
and heart, save in one feeling, one remembrance, one object--that I
am now; Heaven is my witness that I would not cast a thought upon
poverty--upon privation: that I would--nay, I do--I do confide in your
vows, your affection. If you have erred, I know it not. If any but
you tell me you have erred, I believe them not. You I trus