sand of Constance's daily acts of affection rose before him: neyer till this moment had he felt them unrequited; but now they were remembered like a reproach. He could not accuse himself of a moment's unkindness, or even coldness; from the hour that they stood at the altar together, her happiness had been the most sacred and the most tender care in life; but now he felt as if he had wronged her in not loving her entirely. The image of another had been in his heart,—might not its shadow have sometimes fallen upon her? Any occupation was better than this mood of morbid dejection; and, suddenly drawing the lamp towards him, he opened the casket. The first things he saw were the long tresses of fair hair, which her father had had cut off after Constance's death. Norbourne's heart smote him, that he had not thought of them as a sad memorial. His eyes filled with tears, as he took up the glittering lengths. Their pale gold was lovely as ever; but there was something in the touch from which he involuntarily recoiled. It is strange the difference
