ther to experience, or recall:--thus,
in the seasons of the year, we prize the spring; and in the effusions of
the heart, the courtship.

Beautiful, too, and tender--wild and fresh in her tenderness--as
Lucilla was, there was that in her character, in addition to her want of
education, which did not wholly accord with Godolphin's preconception
of the being his fancy had conjured up. His calm and profound nature
desired one in whom he could not only confide, but, as it were, repose.
Thus one great charm that had attracted him to Constance was the
evenness and smoothness of her temper. But the self-formed mind of
Lucilla was ever in a bright, and to him a wearying, agitation;--tears
and smiles perpetually chased each other. Not comprehending his
character, but thinking only and wholly of him, she distracted herself
with conjectures and suspicions, which she was too ingenious and too
impassioned to conceal. After watching him for hours, she would weep
that he did not turn from his books or his reverie to search also for
her, with eyes equally yearning and tender as her own. The fear in
absence, the absorbed devotion when present, that absolutely made her
existence--she was wretched because he did not reciprocate with the same
intensity of soul. She could conceive nothing of love but that which she
felt herself; and she saw, daily and hourly, that in that love he did
not sympathise; and therefore she embittered her life by thinking that
he did not return her affection.

"You wrong us both," said he in answer to her tearful accusations; "but
our sex love differently from yours."

"Ah," she replied, "I feel that love has no varieties: there is but one
love, but there may be many counterfeits."

Godolphin smiled to think how the untutored daughter of nature had
unconsciously uttered the sparkling aphorism of the most artificial of
maxim-makers.(1) Lucilla saw the smile, and her tears flowed instantly.
"Thou mockest me."

"Thou art a little fool," said Godolphin, kindly, and he kissed away the
storm.

And this was ever an easy matter. There was nothing unfeminine or sullen
in Lucilla's irregulated moods; a kind word--a kind caress--allayed them
in an instant, and turned the transient sorrow into sparkling delight.
But they who know how irksome is the perpetual trouble of conciliation
to a man meditative and indolent like Godolphin, will appreciate the
pain that even her tenderness occasioned him.

There in one thing ve