"Ours is a strange world," said Constance, in a sad and thoughtful tone; "I see little enjoyment, and much misery; for which, also, I see no remedy: I am often frightened and weary when I think of it. Every day more and more reconciles me to the idea of leaving it. I could lay my head down on my last pillow, and sleep gladly, like a tired child, but for my father."
"My dearest Constance," cried Lady Marchmont," I will not let you talk in this dejected mood; many, many happy years are before you!"
"It is not a dejected mood, dearest friend," was the answer; "it is one of faith and of hope. God has, for his own good purposes, weaned my heart from a world in which he means me to make but a brief sojourn. Only those destined for an early grave ever felt as I do: I speak not of my bodily health, though that grows weaker every day, but it is my own heart that foretells its doom. It craves for rest and for peace; here it has beat too quickly, and too vainly."
