“And are you happy?” he said, approaching her with gentleness. “Perhaps so, since some can rejoice in the sufferings of others. Yet I forgive you, because I know you are not yourself. I see you are acting from pique; but you have no cause; for did you know my heart, and could you feel what it suffers on your account, your doubts would give way to far more alarming suspicions.” He paused, for she turned abruptly from him. “Dance on then, Lady Avondale,” he continued, “the admiration of those for whose society you were formed—the easy prey of every coxcomb to whom that ready hand is so continually offered, and which I have never once dared to approach. Such is the respect which will ever be shewn to the object of real admiration, interest and regard, although that object seems willing to forget that it is her due. But,” added he, assuming that air of gaiety he had one moment laid aside, “I detain you, do I not? See Colonel Donallan and the Italian Count await you.” “You mistake me,” she said gravely; “I could not presume to imagine that my dancing would be heeded by you:—I could have no motive——” “None but the dear delight of tormenting,” said he, “which gave a surprising elasticity to your step, I can assure you. Indubitably had not that impulse assisted, you could not thus have excelled yourself.” “If you knew,” she said, “what I suffer at this moment you would spare me. Why do you deride me?” “Because, oh Lady Avondale, I dare not—I cannot speak to you more seriously. I feel that I have no right—no claim on you. I dread offending; but to-morrow I shall expiate all; for I leave you to-morrow.—Yes, it must be so. I am going from Ireland. Indeed I was going before I had the misery of believing that I should leave any thing in it I could ever regret.” What Calantha felt, when he said this, cannot be described. “Will you dance the two next dances with me?” said Colonel Donallan, now approaching. “I am tired: will you excuse me? I believe our carriages are ordered.” “Oh surely you will not go away before supper.” “Ask Lady Mandeville what she means to do.” “Lady Trelawney and Miss Seymour stay.” “Then perhaps I shall.” The Colonel bowed and retired.—“Give me the rose you wear,” said Glenarvon in a low voice, “in return for the one I presented you at Donallan Park.” “Must I?” “You must,” said he, smiling. With some hesitation, she obeyed; yet she looked around in hopes no vigilant eye might observe her. She took it from her bosom, and gave it tremblingly into his hands. A large pier glass reflected the scene to the whole company. The rose thus given, was received with transport. It said more, thus offered, than a thousand words:—it was taken and pressed to a lover’s lips, till all its blushing beauties were gone, then it was cast down on the earth to be trampled upon by many. And had Calantha wished it, she might have read in the history of the flower, the fate that ever attends on guilty love.