There was a spot where the trees, receding in a ring, left some bare and huge fragments of stone uncovered by verdure. It was the only spot around that rich and luxuriant scene that was not in harmony with the soft spirit of the place: might I indulge a fanciful comparison, I should say that it was like one desolate and grey remembrance in the midst of a career of pleasure. On this spot Godolphin now stood alone, looking along the still and purple waters that lay before him. Lucilla, with a light step, climbed the rugged stones, and, touching his shoulder, reproached him with a tender playfulness for his truancy. “Lucilla,” said he, when peace was restored, “what impressions does this dreary and prophetic pause of nature before the upgathering of the storm, create in you? Does it inspire you with melancholy, or thought, or fear?” “I see my star,” answered Lucilla, pointing to a far and solitary orb, which hung islanded in a sea of cloud, that swept slowly and blackly onward:--“I see my star, and I think more of that little light than of the darkness around it.” “But it will presently be buried among the clouds,” said Godolphin, smiling at that superstition which Lucilla had borrowed from her father. “But the clouds pass away, and the star endures.” “You are of a sanguine nature, my Lucilla.” Lucilla sighed. “Why that sigh, dearest?” “Because I am thinking how little even those who love us most know of us! I never tell my disquiet and sorrow. There are times when thou wouldst not think me too warmly addicted to hope!” “And what, poor idler, have you to fear?” “Hast thou never felt it possible that thou couldst love me less?” “Never!” Lucilla raised her large searching eyes, and gazed eagerly on his face; but in its calm features and placid brow she saw no ground for augury, whether propitious or evil. She turned away. “I cannot think, Lucilla,” said Godolphin, “that you ever direct those thoughts of yours, wandering though they be, to the future. Do they ever extend to the space of some ten or twenty years?” “No. But one year may contain the whole history of my future.” As she spoke, the clouds gathered round the solitary star to which Lucilla had pointed. The storm was at hand; they felt its approach, and turned homeward. There is something more than ordinarily fearful in the tempests that visit those soft and garden climes. The unfrequency of such violent changes in the mood of nature serves to appal us as with an omen; it is like a sudden affliction in the midst of happiness--or a wound from the hand of one we love. For the stroke for which we are not prepared we have rather despondency than resistance.