Lord Avondale thought he had much to say—many things to ask:—he wished to explain the feelings of his heart—to tell Calantha, once at least before he quitted her, how deeply—how dearly he had loved,—how, though unworthy in his own estimation of aspiring to her hand, the remembrance of her should stimulate him to every noble exertion, and raise him to a reputation which, without her influence, he never could attain:—he thought that he could have clasped her to his bosom, and pressed upon her lips the first kiss of love—the dearest, the truest pledge of fondness and devotion. But, scarcely able to speak, confused and faultering, he dared not approach her:—he saw one before him robed in purity, and more than vestal innocence—one timidly fearful of even a look, or thought, that breathed aught against that virtue which alone it worshipped. “I am come,” he said, at length, “forgive my rashness, to restore this bracelet, and myself to place it around your arms. Permit me to say—farewell, before I leave you, perhaps for ever.” As he spoke, he endeavoured to clasp the diamond lock;—his hand trembled;—Calantha started from him. “Oh!” said she, “you know not what you do:—I am enough his already:—be not you the person to devote me to him more completely:—do not render me utterly miserable.” Though not entirely understanding her, he scarcely could command himself. Her look, her manner—all told him too certainly that which overcame his heart with delight.—“She loves me,” he thought, “and I will die sooner than yield her to any human being:—she loves me;” and, regardless of fears—of prudence—of every other feeling, he pressed her one moment to his bosom. “Oh love me, Calantha,” was all he had time to say; for she broke from him, and fled, too much agitated to reply. That he had presumed too far, he feared; but that she was not indifferent to him, he had heard and seen. The thought filled him with hope, and rendered him callous to all that might befall him. The Duke entered the room as Calantha quitted it.—“Avondale,” he said, offering him his hand, “speak to me, for I wish much to converse with you before we part:—all I ask is, that you will not deceive me. Something more than common has taken place:—I observed you with my child.” “I must indeed speak with you,” said Lord Avondale firmly, but with considerable agitation. “Every thing I hold dear—my life—my happiness—depend on what I have to say.” He then informed the Duke with sincerity of his attachment for Calantha,—proud and eager to acknowledge it, even though he feared that his hopes might never be realized.