So no more heroics, young Miss,” continued he, smiling triumphantly, and shaking his head:—“no more heroics, if you value my opinion. I hate romance and fooleries in women: do I not, Lady St. Clare?—and heaven be praised, since the absence of my poor mad brother, we have not a grain of it in our house. We are all downright people, not afraid of being called vulgar, because we are of the old school; and when you have lived a little time with us, Miss, we shall, I hope, teach you a little sound common sense—a very valuable commodity let me tell you, though you fine people hold it in disrepute.” In this manner, Miss Mac Allain’s mornings were spent, and her evenings even more tediously; for the Doctor, alarmed at the republican principles which he observed fast spreading, was constantly employed in writing pamphlets in favour of government, which he read aloud to his family, when not at the castle, before he committed them to the Dublin press. Two weeks were thus passed, by Alice, with resignation; a third, it seems was beyond her endurance; for one morning Sir Everard’s daughters entering in haste, informed their father and mother that she was gone. “Gone,” cried Lady St. Clare! “the thing is impossible.” “Gone,” cried Sir Everard! “and where? and how?” The maids were called, and one Charley Wright, who served for footman, coachman and every thing else upon occasion, was dispatched to seek her, while the doctor without waiting to hear his wife’s surmises, or his daughter’s lamentations, seized his hat and stick and walked in haste to the castle. His body erect, his cane still under his arm, the brogue stronger than ever from inward agitation, he immediately addressed himself to the Duke and Lady Margaret and soon converted their smiles into fear and anger, by informing them that Alice Mac Allain had eloped. Orders were given, that every enquiry should be made for the fugitive; and the company at the castle being informed one by one of the event, lost themselves in conjectures upon it. Lady Margaret had no doubt herself, that her son was deeply implicated in the affair, and in consequence every search was set on foot, but, as it proved in the event, without the least success. Mr. Buchanan had left Castle Delaval the week before, which confirmed the suspicions already entertained on his account. Lady Avondale was in London when she was informed of this event. Her grief for Alice’s fate was very sincere, and her anxiety for her even greater; but Lord Avondale participated in her sorrow—he endeavoured to sooth her agitation; and how could he fail in his attempt: even misery is lightened, if it is shared; and one look, one word, from a heart which seems to comprehend our suffering, alleviates the bitterness.