As Corinne's foot touched the shore, she could not check a sentiment of joy: had Oswald guessed this, he would have felt displeased, perhaps excusably; yet such displeasure would have been unjust, for he was passionately beloved, though the thought of his country always forced on his adorer the memory of events which had rendered her miserable. Her fancy was changeful: talent, especially in a woman, creates a zest for variety that the deepest passion cannot entirely supply. A monotonous life, even in the bosom of content, dismays a mind so constituted: without a breeze to fill our sails we may always hug the shore; but imagination will stray, be sensibility never so faithful, at least till misfortune slays these trifling impulses, and leaves us but one thought, one only sorrow. Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne solely to the awkward situation of her having been called Lady Nevil: he blamed himself for not extricating her from it, and feared that she might suspect him of levity. He therefore began the long-desired explanation, by offering to relate his own history. "I shall speak first," he said, "and your confidence will follow mine?"--"Doubtless it ought," replied Corinne, trembling; "you wish it--at what day--what hour? when you have spoken, I will tell all."--"How sadly you are agitated!" said Oswald. "Will you always fear me thus, nor ever learn to trust my heart?"--"It must be," she answered: "I have written it, and if you insist--to-morrow----"--"To-morrow we go to Vesuvius: you shall teach me to admire it; and on our way, if I have strength enough, I will give you the story of my own doom: that shall precede yours, I am resolved."--"Well," replied Corinne, "you give me to-morrow: I thank you for that one day more. Who can tell if, when I have opened my heart to you, you will remain the same? How can I help trembling beneath such doubt?" [1] Who that has one beloved object absent for any considerable space of time, can read this tribute from a foreigner without tears of pride and rapture, at the consciousness that whoever is left behind, though little valued while near, gains a sad importance as part of that home, that England, to which the dear one must long to return? The natives of great continents may love their birth-places as well as we do ours; but it cannot be in the same manner.--TR. CHAPTER IV.