You tremble to link your fate with one who has been imprudent--lavish--selfish, if you will.

You recoil before you intrust your happiness to a man who, if he wreck that, can offer you nothing in return: no rank--no station--nothing to heal a bruised heart, or cover its wound, at least, in the rich disguises of power and wealth.

Am I not right, Constance?
Do I not read your mind ?" "No!" said Constance with energy.

"Had I been born any man's daughter, but his from whom I take my name; were I the same in all things, mind and heart, save in one feeling, one remembrance, one object--that I am now; Heaven is my witness that I would not cast a thought upon poverty--upon privation: that I would--nay, I do--I do confide in your vows, your affection.

If you have erred, I know it not.