ject of which it might dream in its many lonely hours, and on which it might lavish its great wealth of fresh and deep affection.
There is nothing to which you so soon become accustomed as to the presence of the beloved one: the gentle chain of habit easily becomes a sweet necessity. Constance had now lived a fortnight in the same house with her cousin, and it already seemed the most natural thing in the world to see him every day. This morning, however, her enjoyment was doomed to be curtailed; for she had scarcely finished her breakfast, before her father gently reminded her of a promise she had given to sort some letters for him.
"I shall make you quite my little secretary in time," said he, with one of his own peculiarly sweet smiles.
To Constance's affectionate temper, her father's kind look or word was more than enough to recompense any sacrifice, and she left even her cousin's side with almost gladness. Norboume's whole attention was riveted on his mother. She all but started from her
