Courtenaye's thoughts were far away; and Constance, shrinking into herself at the least repulse, did not attempt to speak to him again.
There is nothing in this world so sensitive as affection. It feels its own happiness too much not to tremble for its reality; and starts, ever and anon, from its own delicious consciousness, to ask, Is it not, indeed, a dream? A word and a look are enough either to repress or to encourage. Nothing is a trifle in love, for all is seen through an exaggerated medium; and Constance's attachment to her husband was of the most imaginative order—shy, fearful, little demonstrative, but how utterly devoted! It never came into her head to blame Norbourne for any thing. She did not even venture on making excuses for him: all he did appeared best, and most natural to do. She took it for granted that he was preoccupied; and, after a moment or two of disappointment, she resumed her own peculiarly sweet and pleading smile, a smile that seemed to implore your kindness. Indeed, almost her
