Before this period, her eyes had never even glanced upon the numerous pages which have unfortunately been traced by the hand of profaneness and impurity; even the more innocent fictions of romance had been withheld from her; and her mother’s precepts had, in this respect, been attended to by her with sacred care. Books of every description were now, without advice, without selection, thrown open before her; horror and astonishment at first retarded the course of curiosity and interest:—Lord Avondale smiled; and soon the alarm of innocence was converted into admiration at the wit, and beauty with which some of these works abounded. Care is taken when the blind are cured, that the strong light of day should not fall too suddenly upon the eye; but no caution was observed in at once removing from Calantha’s mind, the shackles, the superstitions, the reserve, the restrictions which overstrained notions of purity and piety had imposed. Calantha’s lover had become her master; and he could not tear himself one moment from his pupil. He laughed at every artless or shrewd remark, and pleased himself with contemplating the first workings of a mind, not unapt in learning, though till then exclusively wrapt up in the mysteries of religion, the feats of heroes, the poetry of classic bards, and the history of nations the most ancient and the most removed.—“Where have you existed, my Calantha?” he continually said:—“who have been your companions?” “I had none,” she replied; “but wherever I heard of cruelty, vice, or irreligion, I turned away.” “Ah, do so still, my best beloved,” said Lord Avondale, with a sigh. “Be ever as chaste, as frank, as innocent, as now.” “I cannot,” said Calantha, confused and grieved. “I thought it the greatest of all crimes to love:—no ceremony of marriage—no doctrines, men have invented, can quiet my conscience:—I know no longer what to believe, or what to doubt:—hide me in your bosom:—let us live far from a world which you say is full of evil:—and never part from my side; for you are—Henry you are, all that is left me now. I look no more for the protection of Heaven, or the guidance of parents;—you are my only hope:—do you preserve and bless me; for I have left every thing for you.” CHAPTER XVIII. There is nothing so difficult to describe as happiness. Whether some feeling of envy enters into the mind upon hearing of it, or whether it is so calm, so unassuming, so little ostentatious in itself, that words give an imperfect idea of it, I know not. It is easier to enjoy it, than to define it. It springs in the heart, and shews itself on the countenance; but it shuns all display; and is oftener found at home, when home has not been embittered by dissensions, suspicions and guilt, than any where else upon earth. Yes, it is in home and in those who watch there for us. Miserable is the being, who turns elsewhere for consolation! Desolate is the heart which has broken the ties that bound it there.