Calantha! unhappy child, whom not even the pangs of death could tear from the love, and remembrance of thy mother,—what hours of agony were thine, when a father’s hand first tore thee from that lifeless bosom,—when piercing shrieks declared the terror of thy mind, oppressed, astonished at the first calamity, by which it had been tried,—when thy lips tremblingly pronounced for the last time, the name of mother—a name so dear, so sacred and beloved, that its very sound awakens in the heart, all that it can feel of tenderness and affection! What is left that shall replace her? What friend, what tie, shall make up for her eternal absence? What even are the present sufferings of the orphan child, to the dreary void, the irreparable loss she will feel through all her future years. It was on that bosom, she had sought for comfort, when passion and inadvertence had led her into error. It was that gentle, that dear voice, which had recalled her from error, even when severity had failed.—There is, in every breast, some one affection that predominates over the rest—there is still to all some one object, to which the human heart is rivetted beyond all others:—in Calantha’s bosom, the love of her mother prevailed over every other feeling. A long and violent illness succeeded, in Calantha, the torpor which astonishment and terror at her loss had produced; and from this state, she recovered only to give way to a dejection of mind not less alarming: but even her grief was to be envied, when compared with the disorder of Lady Margaret’s mind.—Remorse preyed upon her heart, the pride and hardness of which, disdained the humility of acknowledging her offence in the presence of her Creator.