Lady Avondale, in the mean time, fatigued with the ceremonious insipidity of their conversation, and delighted at having for once escaped from Count Gondimar, sought in vain to draw her companions into the illuminated gardens, and not succeeding, wandered into them alone, followed by some masks in the disguise of gipsies, by whom she was soon surrounded; and one of them whom she now recognised to be the same who had spoken to her with Gondimar, now under the pretence of telling her fortune, said to her every thing that was most severe. “What,” said he, turning to one of his companions, “do you think of the line in this lady’s hand? It is a very strange one: I augur no good from it.” The dress of the mask who spoke was that of a friar, his voice was soft and mournful. “Caprice” said the young man, whom he addressed: “I read no worse fault. Come, I will tell her fortune.—Lady, you were born under a favoured planet,” “Aaron,”—interrupted the first gipsey, “you are a flatterer, and it is my privilege to speak without disguise. Give me the hand, and I will shew her destiny.” After pausing a moment, he fixed his dark eyes upon Calantha, the rest of his face being covered by a cowl, and in a voice like music, so soft and plaintive begun.— The task to tell thy fate, be mine, To guard against its ills, be thine; For heavy treads the foot of care On those who are so young and fair. The star, that on thy birth shone bright, Now casts a dim uncertain light: A threatening sky obscures its rays, And shadows o’er thy future days. In fashion’s magic circle bound, Thy steps shall tread her mazy round, While pleasure, flattery and art, Shall captivate thy fickle heart. The transient favorite of a day, Of folly and of fools the prey; Insatiate vanity shall pine As honour, and as health decline, Till reft of fame, without a friend, Thou’lt meet, unwept, an early end. Lady Avondale coloured; and the young man who had accused her of caprice, watching her countenance, and seeing the pain these acrimonious lines had given her, reproved the friar “No, no,” he cried “if she must hear her destiny, let me reveal it.” The task to tell thy fate, be mine, And every bliss I wish thee, thine. So heavenly fair, so pure, so blest, Admired by all, by all carest. The ills of life thou ne’er shalt know, Or weep alone for others woe.