“Would you believe it, after all your kindness,” said Sophia, entering her mother’s room. “Calantha is gone.” At the words “she’s gone,” Mrs. Seymour fainted; nor did she for some time recover; but with returning sense, when she saw not Calantha, when asking repeatedly for her, she received evasive answers; terror again overcame her—she was deeply and violently agitated. She sent for the children; she clasped them to her bosom. They smiled upon her; and that look, was a pang beyond all others of bitterness. The Admiral, in tears, approached her; lamented his interference; yet spoke with just severity of the offender. “If I know her heart, she will yet return,” said Mrs. Seymour. “She will never more return,” replied Sophia. “How indeed will she dare appear, after such a public avowal of her sentiments—such a flagrant breach of every sacred duty. Oh, there is no excuse for the mother who thus abandons her children—for the wife who stamps dishonour on a husband’s fame—for the child that dares to disobey a father’s sacred will?” “Sophia beware. Judge not of others—judge not; for the hour of temptation may come to all. Oh judge her not,” said Mrs. Seymour, weeping bitterly; “for she will yet return.” Towards evening Mrs. Seymour again enquired for Calantha. They told her she had not been heard of; her agitation proved too well the doubt she entertained. “Send again,” she continually said, and her hand, which Lady Margaret held in hers, became cold and trembling. They endeavoured to comfort her; but what comfort was there left. They tried to detain her in her own apartment; but the agony of her sufferings was too great;—her feeble frame—her wasted form could ill endure so great a shock. The Duke, affected beyond measure, endeavoured to support her. “Pardon her, receive her with kindness,” said Mrs. Seymour, looking at him. “I know she will not leave you thus: I feel that she must return.” “We will receive her without one reproach,” said the Duke. “I, too, feel secure that she will return.” “I know her heart: she can never leave us thus. Go yourself, Altamonte,” said Lady Margaret:—“let me go.” “Where would you seek her?” “At Lord Glenarvon’s,” said Mrs. Seymour, faintly. “Oh! she is not there,” said the Duke. “She never will act in a manner we must not pardon.” Mrs. Seymour trembled at these words—she was ill, most ill; and they laid her upon her bed, and watched in silence and agony around her. The Duke repeated sternly—“I trust she is not gone to Lord Glenarvon—_all_ else I can forgive.” END OF VOL. II. LONDON: PRINTED BY SCHULZE AND DEAN, 13, POLAND STREET, OXFORD STREET.