Buchanan consoled himself by talking of his dogs and horses; and having given Calantha a list of the names of each, began enumerating to her the invitations he had received for the ensuing week. Fortunately, at this moment, a servant entered with a note for Gondimar. “Does the bearer wait?” he exclaimed with much agitation upon reading it; and immediately left the room. Upon returning home, Count Gondimar perceived with surprise, in the place of the person he had expected, one of the attendants of the late Countess of Glenarvon,—a man whose countenance and person he well remembered from its peculiarly harsh and unpleasant expression.—“Is my young Lord alive?” said the man in a stern manner. Count Gondimar replied in the negative. “Then, Sir, I must trouble you with those affairs which most nearly concern him.” “Your name, I think is Macpherson?” said Count Gondimar. “You lived with the Countess of Glenarvon.” The man bowed, and giving a letter into the hands of the Count, “I am come from Italy at this time,” he replied, “in search of my late master—La Crusca and myself.” “Is La Crusca with you?” said Gondimar starting. “The letter will inform you of every particular,” replied the man with some gravity. “I shall wait for the child, or your farther orders.” Saying this, he left the Count’s apartment; and returned into the anti-chamber, where a beautiful little boy was waiting for him. On that very evening, after a long conversation with Macpherson, Count Gondimar again sought Calantha at her father’s house, where, upon enquiring for her, he was immediately admitted. After some little hesitation, he told her that he had brought her the present of which he had made mention in his letter; that if she had the unkindness to refuse it, some other perhaps would take charge of it:—it was a gift which, however unworthy he was to offer it, he thought would be dearer in her estimation than the finest jewels, and the most costly apparel:—it was a fair young boy, he said, fitted to be a Lady’s page, and trained in every cunning art his tender years could learn. “He will be a play mate;” he said smiling, “for your son, and when,” added he in a lower voice, “the little Mowbrey can speak, he will learn to lisp in that language which alone expresses all that the heart would utter—all that in a barbarous dialect it dares not—must not say.”