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Rh his face, with a glance that seemed desirous of reading his inmost thoughts. "No," said he, "Constance did not seem well enough to go out; and, as I am not wanted, I mean to keep my promise with Walter Maynard, and accompany him to witness the fate of his new play, which comes out to-night." "Constance has not been well," observed her father, " since the fête at Marble Hill: we must not let her go into scenes of such fatigue." "And yet," said Norbourne, "it is a dull life she often leads. Why, my dear uncle, when I come home late I always find her up in the library, copying your letters—an example, I am sure, to your other secretaries." "Constance is a creature only fitted to live in the quiet sphere of the affections. She is happier at home than in the midst of gaiety, which is too much for her: but her recent indisposition seems to me rather in the mind." The open and anxious manner in which Norbourne looked up, was sufficient answer;