Calantha had talked herself into tears, at the conclusion of this sentence; and Lord Avondale, smiling at a description she had given, so little according with the gay being who stood before him, pressed her fondly to his bosom; and said he would positively hear no more. “You treat me like a child—a fool,”—she said:—“you forget that I am a reasonable creature.” “I do, indeed, Calantha:—you so seldom do any thing to remind me of it.” “Well, Henry, one day you shall find your error. I feel that within, which tells me that I could be superior—aye—very superior to those who cavil at my faults, and first encourage and then ridicule me for them. I love—I honour you, Henry. You never flatter me. Even if you neglect me, you have confidence in me—and, thank God, my heart is still worthy of some affection.—It is yet time to amend.” Calantha—thought it had been—as she took in haste a review of her former conduct—of time, how neglected!—friends, how estranged!—money lavished in vain!—and health impaired by the excess of late hours, and endless, ceaseless dissipation. London had still attractions for Calantha; but the thought of fresh air, and green fields recurring, she was soon prepared for the journey. She passed the intervening days before her departure in taking leave of her friends. Lady Mandeville, in bidding adieu to her, affirmed that the interchange of ideas between congenial souls, would never be lessened, nor interrupted by absence. She would write to her, she said, and she would think of her; and, seeing Calantha was really sorry to part with her, “You have none of the philosophy,” she said, “which your cousin and your aunt possess, and every trifle, therefore, has power to afflict you:—you scarcely know me, and yet you are grieved to leave me. Promise ever to judge of me by what you see yourself, and not through the medium of others; for the world, which I despise from my soul, has long sought to crush me, because I had pride of character enough to think for myself.”