The tone of his wife's voice struck on the right chord in Godolphin's breast; he looked up, and saw her eyes full of tears and fixed upon him.
"Why, Constance," said he, much affected, "who would have thought that you still cherished that remembrance?"
"Ah! when shall I forget it?" said Constance; "then you loved me!"
"And was rejected."
"Hush! but I believe now that I was wrong."
"No, Constance; you were wrong, for your own happiness, that the rejection was not renewed."
"Percy!"
"Constance!" and in the accent of that last word there was something that encouraged Constance, and she threw herself into Godolphin's arms, and murmured:—
"If I have offended, forgive me; let us be to each other what we once were."
Words like these from the lips of one in whom such tender supplications, such feminine yearnings, were not common, subdued Godolphin at once. He folded her in his arms, and kissing her passionately, whispered, "Be always thus, Constance, and you will be more to me than ever."