“Where is he?”—“which is he?”—Was whispered now from mouth to mouth. The Admiral, the Duke, the concert were forgotten. One object appeared suddenly to engage the most boundless curiosity. “Is that really Lord Glenarvon?” Said a pretty little woman pushing her way towards him. “Oh let me but have the happiness of speaking one word to him:—let me but say, when I return to my home, that I have seen him, and I shall be overjoyed.” Calantha made room for the enthusiastic Lady:—she approached—she offered her hand to the deliverer of his Country as she called him:—he accepted it with grace, but some embarrassment. The rush was then general: everyone would see—would speak to their Lord—their King; and the fashionable reserve which affectation had, for a moment, taught the good people of Belfont to assume, soon vanished, when nature spoke in their bosoms: so that had not the performers of the grand _concerto_ called to order, Lord Glenarvon had been absolutely obliged to make his retreat. The mystery in which his fate appeared involved, his youth, his misfortunes, his brave conduct, and perhaps even his errors awakened this interest in such as beheld him. But he turned from the gaze of strangers with bitterness. “Will you allow me to seat myself near you?” he said, approaching Calantha’s chair. “Can you ask?” “Without asking, I would not. You may possibly stay till late: I shall go early. My only inducement in coming here was you.” “Was me! Do not say, what I am well assured is not true.” “I never say what I do not feel. Your presence here alone makes me endure all this fulsome flattery, noise, display. If you dance—that is, when you dance, I shall retire.” The concert now began with frequent bursts of applause. All were silent:—suddenly a general murmur proclaimed some new and unexpected event:—a young performer appeared. Was it a boy! Such grace—such beauty, soon betrayed her: it was Miss St. Clare. She could not hope for admittance in her own character; yet, under a feigned name, she had promised to assist at the performance; and the known popularity of her songs, and the superior sweetness of her voice, prevented the professors from enquiring too much into the propriety of such an arrangement. Messieurs John Maclane and Creighton had just been singing in Italian, an opera buffa. The noise they had made was such, that even the most courteous had been much discountenanced. A moment’s pause ensued; when, without one blush of modest diffidence, but, on the contrary, with an air of dauntless and even contemptuous effrontery, the youthful performer seized her harp—Glenarvon’s harp—and singing, whilst her dark brilliant eyes were fixed upon him alone, she gave vent to the emotions of her own bosom, and drew tears of sympathy from many another. The words were evidently made at the moment; and breathed from the heart. She studied not the composition, but the air was popular, and for that cause it had effect.