There is such timidity, even in the most impetuous female heart, that a trifle will restrain as a trifle can excite it. Lucy knelt, removed the garland which had bound her hair, and raised her eyes to heaven with an angelic appeal: her face was softly illumined by the moonbeams, and Corinne's heart melted with the purest generosity. She contemplated the chaste and pious expression of that almost childish visage, and remembered how she had watched over it in infancy: her own youth was waning, while Lucy had before her a long futurity, that ought not to be troubled by any recollections which she might shame at confessing, either before the world or to her own conscience. "If I accost her," thought Corinne, "that soul, so peaceful now, will be disturbed, perhaps, forever. I have already borne so much, that I can suffer on; but the innocent Lucy would pass, in a moment from perfect calm to the most cruel agitation. Can I, who have lulled her to sleep on my bosom, hurl her into the ocean of grief?" Love still combated this disinterested elevation of mind, when Lucy said aloud: "Pray for me, oh my father!" Corinne sunk on her knees, and mutely besought a paternal benediction on them both, with tears more stainless than those of love. Lucy audibly continued: "Dear sister, intercede for me in heaven! Friend of my childhood, protect me now!" How Corinne's bosom yearned towards her, as Lucy, with added fervor, resumed; "Pardon me, father, a brief forgetfulness, caused by the sentiment yourself commanded! I am not, sure, to blame for loving him you chose to be my husband. Achieve your work! Inspire him to select me as the partner of his life! I shall never be happy, save with him; but my fluttering heart shall not betray its secret. Oh, my God! My father, console your child! render her worthy the esteem of _Oswald_!"--"Yes," whispered Corinne, "kind father, grant her prayer, and give your other child a peaceful grave!" Thus solemnly concluding the greatest effort of which her soul was capable, she took from her breast the paper which contained Oswald's ring, and rapidly withdrew. She felt that in sending this, without letting him know where she was, she should break all their ties, and yield him to her sister. In the presence of that tomb, she had been more conscious than ever of the obstacles which separated them: her own father, as well as Oswald's, seemed to condemn their love. Lucy appeared deserving of him; and Corinne, at least for the moment, was proud to sacrifice herself, that he might live at peace with his country, his family, and his own heart. The music which she heard from the house sustained her firmness: she saw an old blind man, seated at the foot of a tree to listen, and begged he would present her letter to one of the servants; thus she escaped the risk of Oswald's discovering who had brought it; for no one could have seen her give the paper, without being assured that it contained the fate of her whole life. Her looks, her shaking hand, her hollow voice, bespoke one of those awful moments, when destiny overrules us, and we act but as the slaves of that fatality which so long pursued us. Corinne watched the old man, led by his faithful dog, give her letter to a servant of Nevil's, who, by chance, was carrying others into the house. All things conspired to banish her last hope: she made a few steps towards the gate, turning her head to mark the servant's entrance. When she no longer saw him--when she was on the high road, the lights and music lost, a deathlike damp rose to her brow, a chill ran through her frame; she tottered on, but nature refused the task, and she fell senseless by the way.