“Charles—­Charles,” she replied, but at the same time her eyes were swimming in tears, “spare me this; do not overload my heart with such an excess of sorrow; have compassion on me, for I am already too sensible of my own misery—­too sensible of the happiness I have lost.  I am here isolated and alone, with no kind voice to whisper one word of consolation to my unhappy heart, my poor maid only excepted; and I am often forced, in order to escape the pain of present reflections, to make a melancholy struggle once more to entrance myself in the innocent dreams of my early life.  Yes, and I will confess it, to call back if I can those visions that gave the delicious hues of hope and happiness to the love which bound your heart and mine together.  The illusion, however, is too feeble to struggle successfully with the abiding consciousness of my wretchedness, and I awake to a bitterness of anguish that is drinking up the fountains of my life, out of which life I feel, if this state continues, I shall soon pass away.”

On concluding, she wiped away the tears that were fast falling; and her lover was so deeply moved that he could scarcely restrain his own.

“There is one word, dearest Lucy,” he replied, “but though short it is full of comfort—­hope.”

“Alas!  Charles, I feel that it has been blotted out of the destiny of my life.  I look for it; I search for it, but in vain.  In this life I cannot find it; I say in this, because it is now, when all about me is darkness, and pain, and suffering, that I feel the consolation which arises from our trust in another.  This consolation, however, though true, is sad, and the very joy it gives is melancholy, because it arises from that mysterious change which withdraws us from existence; and when it leads us to happiness we cannot forget that it is through the gate of the grave.  But still it is a consolation, and a great one—­to a sufferer like me, the only one—­we must all die.”

Like a strain of soft but solemn music, these mournful words proceeded from her lips, from which they seemed to catch the touching sweetness which characterized them.

“I ought not to shed these tears,” she added; “nor ought you, dear Charles, to feel so deeply what I say as I perceive you do; but I know not how it is, I am impressed with a presentiment that this is probably our last meeting; and I confess that I am filled with a mournful satisfaction in speaking to you—­in looking upon you—­yes, I confess it; and I feel all the springs of tenderness opened, as it were, in my unhappy heart.  In a short time,”—­she added, and here she almost sobbed, “it will be a crime to think of you—­to allow my very imagination to turn to your image; and I shall be called upon to banish that image forever from my heart, which I must strive to do, for to cherish it there will be wrong; but I shall struggle, for”—­she added, proudly —­“whatever my duty may be, I shall leave nothing undone to preserve my conscience free from its own reproaches.”