"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,