"No," said Mr. Carleton, with that eye of deep meaning to which Constance always rendered involuntary homage "every one wants, it; if we do not daily take an observation to find where we are, we are sailing about wildly, and do not know whither we are going."
"An observation?" said Constance, understanding part, and impatient of not catching the whole of his meaning.
"Yes," he said, with a smile of singular fascination "I mean, consulting the unerring guides of the way to know where we are, and if we are sailing safely and happily in the right direction otherwise we are in danger of striking upon some rock, or of never making the harbour; and in either case, all is lost."
The power of eye and smile was too much for Constance, as it had happened more than once before; her own eyes fell, and for a moment she wore a look of unwonted sadness and sweetness, at what from any other person would have roused her mockery.
"Mr. Carleton," said she, trying to rally herself, but still not daring to look up, knowing that would put it out of her power, "I can't understand how you ever came to be such a grave person."
"What is your idea of gravity?" said he smiling. "To have a mind so at rest about the future, as to be able to enjoy thoroughly all that is worth enjoying in the present?"
"But I can't imagine how you ever came to take up such notions."
"May I ask again, why not I?"
"Oh, you know, you have so much to make you otherwise."
"What degree of present contentment ought to make one satisfied to leave that of the limitless future an uncertain thing?"