Such was the character of Lord Avondale, imperfectly sketched—but true to nature.—He, in his twenty-first year, now appeared at Castle Delaval—the admiration of the large and various company then assembled there. Flattered, perhaps, by the interest shewn him, but reserved and distant to every too apparent mark of it, he viewed the motley groupe before him, as from a superior height, and smiled with something of disdain, at times, as he marked the affectation, the meanness, the conceit and, most of all, the heartlessness and cowardice of many of those around him. Of a morning, he would not unfrequently join Calantha and Sophia in their walks; of an evening, he would read to the former, or make her his partner at billiards, or at cards. At such times, Sophia would work at a little distance; and as her needle monotonously passed the silken thread through the frame to which her embroidery was fixed, her eyes would involuntarily turn to where her thoughts, in spite of her endeavours, too often strayed. Calantha listened to the oft-repeated stories of the admiral; she heard of his battles, his escapes and his dangers, when others were weary of the well-known topics; but he was Lord Avondale’s uncle, and that thought made every thing he uttered interesting to her. “You love,” said Alice Mac Allain, one day to her mistress, as they wandered in silence along the banks of the river Elle, “and he who made you alone can tell to what these madning fires may drive a heart like yours. Remember your bracelet—remember your promises to Buchanan; and learn, before it is too late, in some measure to controul yourself, and disguise your feelings.” Calantha started from Alice; for love, when it first exists, is so timid, so sacred, that it fears the least breath of observation, and disguises itself under every borrowed name. “You are wrong,” said Calantha, “I would not bend my free spirit to the weakness of which you would accuse me, for all the world can offer; your Calantha will never acknowledge a master; will never yield her soul’s free and immortal hopes, to any earthly affection. Fear not, my counsellor, that I will forsake my virgin vows, or bow my unbroken spirit to that stern despot, whose only object is power and command.”