The spring was far advanced. Calantha’s health required the sea air; but her situation rendered a long journey hazardous. Lord Avondale resolved to await her confinement in England. The birth of a daughter was an additional source of happiness: Anabel was the name given to the little infant. Harry Mowbray was now in his second year. The accounts from Ireland were more satisfactory. Mrs. Seymour wrote constantly to Calantha regretting her absence. Weeks, however, flew by, in the same thoughtless vanities: months passed away without regret or care.—Autumn was gone:—winter again approached.—London, though deserted, by the crowd, was still gay. Calantha lived much with her Aunt Margaret, Lady Mandeville, and the Princess of Madagascar. The parks and streets, but lately so thronged with carriages, were now comparatively lonely and deserted. Like the swallows at the appointed hour, the gay tribe of fashionable idlers had vanished; and a new set of people appeared in their place:—whence, or why, nobody could guess. One day Zerbellini, Calantha’s little page, had just returned with a note from Buchanan; a french hair dresser was cutting her hair; milliners and jewellers were displaying upon every table new dresses—caps—chains—rings—for the ensuing winter; and Calantha’s eye was dazzled—her ear was charmed—when her aunt Margaret entered.—“God bless your Ladyship, God preserve you,” said a woman half starved, who was waiting for an answer to her petition.—“_Mi Lady; ne prendra-t-elle pas ce petit bonnet?_” said Madame la Roche. “Yes, every thing, any thing,” she answered impatiently, as she got up to receive her aunt.—She was unusually grave. Calantha trembled; for she thought she was prepared to speak to her about Buchanan. She was extremely relieved when she found that her censures turned solely upon her page. “Why keep that little foreign minion?” she said, indignantly. “Is the Count Viviani so very dear, that any present of his must be thus treasured up and valued?” “The Count Viviani?” said Calantha astonished: “who is he?”—“Well, then, Gondimar,” replied Lady Margaret. “Calantha—as a favour, I request you send back that boy.”—Lady Avondale’s prayers were at first her sole reply; and like Titania, in her second, when Oberon demanded the trusty Henchman, she boldly refused. Lady Margaret left her immediately:—she was calm, but offended. She was then going to Castle Delaval. Calantha told her they should join her there in the course of the next month. She only smiled, with a look of incredulity and contempt; asking her, if her beloved Henry would really be so cruel as to tear her away at last from London? and saying this she took leave.