being would have changed; for his sake she would have done any thing, and could have become any thing. Lavinia was clever; a coarse, shrewd kind of cleverness, quick to perceive its own interest, and unscrupulous in pursuing it. She had no delicacy, no keen feelings that got in her way. She had made great progress on the stage, was a favourite with the public, and, if not happy, was, at all events, often very well amused. Still her heart clung to Walter: she knew that he loved another, that the connexion between themselves was rather endured than solicited on his part; still she had for him a careful and disinterested tenderness, that half redeemed her faults—at least, it showed that all of good and feminine kindness was not quite extinct within her. She leaned over him, while her eyes filled with tears.
"He is dying," muttered she, in a low whisper; "he has too little of this world in him to last long in it," and she buried her face in her hands.
