dulge, without criminality on the one hand, or what must have appeared to the man of the world derogatory folly on the other, he turned his thoughts into a less voluptuous channel, and prepared, though with a reluctant step, to depart homeward. But what was his amaze, his confusion, when, on reaching the mouth of the cave, he saw within a few steps of him Lucilla herself!

She was walking alone and slowly, her eyes bent upon the ground, and did not perceive him. According to a common custom with the middle classes of Rome, her rich hair, save by a single band, was uncovered; and as her slight and exquisite form moved along the velvet sod, so beautiful a shape, and a face so rare in its character and delicate in its expression, were in harmony with the sweet superstition of the spot, and seemed almost to restore to the deserted cave and the mourning stream their living Egeria.

Godolphin stood transfixed to the earth; and Lucilla, who was walking in the direction of the grotto, did not perceive till she was almost immediately before him. She gave a faint scream as she lifted her eyes; and the first and most natural sentiment of the woman breaking forth involuntarily, she attempted to falter out her disavowal of all expectation of meeting him

there:

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Indeed, indeed, I did not know-that is-I—I—” she could achieve no more.

"Is this a favourite spot with you?" siad he, with the vague embarrassment of one at a loss for words. "Yes," said Lucilla, faintly.

And so, in truth, it was: for its vicinity to her home, the beauty of the little valley, and the interest attached to it-an interest not the less to her in that she was but imperfectly acquainted with the true legend of the Nymph and her royal lover-had made it, even from her childhood, a chosen and beloved retreat, especially in that dangerous summer time which drives the visiter from the spot, and leaves the scene, in great measure, to the solitude which befits it. Associated as the

place was with the recollections of her earlier griefs, it was thither that her first instinct made her fly from the rude contact and displeasing companionship of her relations, to give vent to the various and conflicting passions which the late scene with Godolphin had called forth.

They now stood for a few moments silent and embarrassed, till Godolphin, resolved to end a scene which he began to feel was dangerous, said, in a hurried tone,

"Farewell, my sweet pupil! farewell! May God bless you!"

He extended his hand. Lucilla seized it as if by impulse, and, conveying it suddenly to her lips, bathed it with tears.

"I feel," said this wild and unregulated girl, "I feel, from your manner, that I ought to be grateful to you; yet I scarcely know why: you confess you cannot love me, that my affection distresses you-you fly-you desert me. Ah, if you felt one particle even of friendship for me, could you do so?"

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Lucilla, what can I say? I cannot marry you." "Do I wish it? I ask thee but to let me go with thee wherever thou goest."

"Poor child!" said Godolphin, gazing on her; "art thou not aware that thou askest thine own dishonour?" Lucilla seemed surprised: "Is it dishonour to love? They do not think so in Italy. It is wrong for a maiden to confess it; but that thou hast forgiven me. And if to follow thee--to sit with thee-to be near thee, bring aught of evil to myself, not thee, let me incur the evil it can be nothing compared to the agony of thy absence!"

She looked up timidly as she spoke, and saw, with a sort of terror, that his face worked with emotions which seemed to choke his answer. "If," she cried, passionately, "if I have said what pains thee-if I have asked what would give dishonour, as thou callest it, or harm to thyself, forgive me-I knew it not-and leave me. But if it were not of thyself that thou didst

speak, believe me that thou hast done me but a cruel mercy. Let me go with thee, I implore! I have no friend here no one loves me. I hate the faces I gaze upon; I loathe the voices I hear. And, were it for nothing else, thou remindest me of him who is gone: thou art familiar to me: every look of thee breathes of my home, of my household recollections. Take me with thee, beloved stranger! or leave me to dieI will not survive thy loss !"

"You speak of your father: know you that, were I to grant what you, in your childish innocence, so unthinkingly request, he might curse me from his grave?"

"Oh God, not so! mine is the prayer-be mine the guilt, if guilt there be. But is it not unkinder in thee to desert his daughter than to protect her?"

There was a great, a terrible struggle in Godolphin's breast. "What," said he, scarcely knowing what he said, "what will the world think of you if you fly with a stranger ?"

"There is no world to me but thee !"

"What will your uncle-your relations say?"

"I care not; for I shall not hear them."

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No, no, this must not be !" said Godolphin, proudly, and once more conquering himself. "Lucilla, I would

give up every other dream or hope in life to feel that I might requite this devotion by passing my life with thee: to feel that I might grant what thou askest without wronging thy innocence; but-but-"

"You love me, then! You love me !" cried Lucilla, joyously, and alive to no other interpretation of his words.

Godolphin was transported beyond himself; and, clasping Lucilla in his arms, he covered her cheeks, her lips, with impassioned and burning kisses; then suddenly, as if stung by some irresistible impulse, he tore himself away and fled from the spot.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE WEAKNESS OF ALL VIRTUE SPRINGING ONLY FROM THE FEELINGS.

It was the evening before Godolphin left Rome. As he was entering his palazzo he descried in the darkness, and at a little distance, a figure wrapped in a mantle that reminded him of Lucilla; ere he could certify himself, it was gone.

On entering his rooms, he looked eagerly over the papers and notes on his table: he seemed disappointed with the result, and sat himself down in moody and discontented thought. He had written to Lucilla the day before a long, a kind, nay, a noble outpouring of his thoughts and feelings. As far as he was able, to one so simple in her experience, yet so wild in her fancy, he explained to her the nature of his struggles and his self-sacrifice. He did not disguise from her that, till the moment of her confession, he had never examined the state of his heart towards her; nor that, with that confession, a new and ardent train of sentiment had been kindled within him. He knew enough of women to be aware that the last avowal would be the sweetest consolation both to her vanity and her heart. He assured her of the promises he had received from her relations to grant her the liberty and the indulgence that her early and unrestrained habits required; and in the most delicate and respectful terms, he enclosed an order for a sum of money sufficient at any time to command the regard of those with whom she lived, or to enable her to choose, should she so desire (though he advised her not to adopt such a measure, save for the most urgent reasons), another residence. "Send me in return," he said, as he concluded, "a lock of your hair. I want nothing to remind

me of your beauty, but I want some token of the heart of whose affection I am so mournfully proud. I will wear it as a charm against the contamination of that world of which you are so happily ignorant-as a memento of one nature beyond the thought of selfas a surety that, in finding within this base and selfish quarter of earth one soul so warm, so pure as yours, I did not deceive myself, and dream. If we ever meet again, may you then have found some one happier than I am, and in his tenderness have forgotten all of me save one kind remembrance. Beautiful and dear Lucilla, adieu! If I have not given way to the luxury of being beloved by you, it is because your generous self-abandonment has awakened, within a heart too selfish to others, a real love for yourself."

To this letter Godolphin had, hour after hour, expected a reply. He received none-not even the lock of hair for which he had pressed. He was disappointed; angry with Lucilla, dissatisfied with himself. "How bitterly," thought he, "the wise Saville would smile at my folly! I have renounced the bliss of possessing this singular and beautiful being; for what? an idle and absurd scruple which she cannot even comprehend, and at which, in her friendless and forlorn state, the most starch of her dissolute countrywomen would smile as a mere and ridiculous punctilio. And, in truth, had I fled hence with her, should I not have made her throughout life happier, far happier than she will be now? Nor would she, in that happiness, have felt, like an English girl, any pang of shame. Here the tie would have never been regarded as a degradation; nor does she, recurring to the simple laws of nature, imagine that any one could so regard it. Besides, inexperienced as she is the creature of impulsewill she not fall a victim to some more artful and less generous lover? to some one who in her innocence will see only forwardness; and who, far from protecting her as I should have done, will regard her but as the plaything of an hour, and cast her forth the moment his passion is sated? Sated! Oh bitter thought, that