A beautiful little boy now pushing his way through the crowd, plainly pronounced the words, “O’Kelly come home; I am very tired.” The man, hastily descending from the cart, called him his young prince—his treasure; and lifted him up in his arms. “He is about the same age as Henry Mowbray,” said Calantha, “and very like him. What is your name, my pretty child?” “Clare of Costally,” said the boy; “and it should by rights be Lord Clare—should it not, O’Kelly?” As he spoke, he smiled and put his little rosy hands to O’Kelly’s mouth, who kissed them, and making a slight bow, would have retired. “What, are you going? will you not stay a moment?” “I fear I intrude too much on your honour’s time.” “Not in the least—not in the least, good Mister Wailman; pray stay a little longer.” “Why, fair and honest, if I don’t intrude too much on your time, my lord, you do on mine; and so your servant.” “I really believe he belongs to the abbey,” said Lady Trelawney, who had re-entered her barouche, and was driving with the rest of the party, towards St. Alvin Priory. “See how he steals along by the cliff, in the same direction we are going.” “It was a lovely child,” said Lady Augusta; “but to be sure no more like Harry; only Lady Avondale is always in the seventh heaven of romance.” “Look, pray look,” interrupted Frances: “I assure you that is Sir Everard St. Clare’s wife, and Lauriana and Jessica are with her. I am certain of it,” she continued, throwing herself nearly out of the carriage to gaze upon them. Lord Trelawney was extremely diverted. “And there is the recruiting serjeant: only observe the manner in which they are habited.” The two unhappy girls, drest in the most flaunting attire, singing in chorus the song of liberty, covered with green ribbands, were walking in company with a vast number of young men, most of them intoxicated, and all talking and laughing loudly. Calantha begged Buchanan to stop the carriage, that she also might see them pass; which they did, marching to the sound of the drum and fife: but her heart sickened when she saw the beautiful recluse of Glenaa amongst them. Elinor came near: she raised her full black eye, and gazed with fearless effrontery upon Calantha. It was the same face she had seen a few years back at the convent: but alas, how changed;—the rich and vivid crimson of her cheek, the deep dark brown of the wild ringlets which waved above her brow, the bold masculine manners and dress she had assumed, contrasting with the slender beauty of her upright form. She was drest in uniform, and walked by the side of a young man, whose pale, thoughtful countenance struck every one. Elinor appeared desperate and utterly hardened: her presence inspired Calantha with a mixed feeling of horror and commiseration, which Lady St. Clare’s ludicrous figure, and Jessica and Lauriana’s huge and clumsy personages turned into disgust.