Upon the bosom of Mrs. Seymour, Calantha wept for her fault; it was infatuation, she said, she was cured: the lesson, though somewhat harsh, had not been fruitless. Again, she made every promise, which affection and repentance could suggest. She heard the name of her husband pronounced, and longed to throw herself before him, and commend herself to his mercy. I do repent, indeed I do, said Calantha, repeatedly in the course of the day; and she thought her penitence had been sincere. Humbled now, and gentle, she thought only of pleasing her aunt, Lord Avondale, and her friends. She was desired to play during the evening: to shew her ready obedience she immediately obeyed. Lord Glenarvon was in an adjoining room; he entered when she began: springing up, Lady Avondale left the harp; then, seeing Lord Avondale surprised, she prepared to tune it. Lord Glenarvon approached, and offered her his hand, she refused it. “Will you play?” he said—and she turned the key with so much force that it broke the chords asunder. “You have wound them too tight, and played upon them too often,” he said. “Trifle not with me thus—I cannot play now,” she replied. “Leave me, I entreat you.” “You know not what you have done,” he replied. “All I ask—all I implore is, that you will neither come near me, nor speak to me more, for I am mad.” “Women always recover from these paroxysms,” said he, gaily. Calantha attempted to play, and did so extremely ill, after which she went to bed, happier, it must be owned, for she had seen in Lord Glenarvon’s manner that he was not indifferent, and this rendered it more easy for her to appear so. The next morning Lady Avondale went out immediately after breakfast, without speaking to Lord Glenarvon. He twice attempted it, but with real anger, she refused to hear him. It was late in the day, when, having sought for her before dinner, he at length found her alone. His voice faultered, his eyes were filled with tears. “Lady Avondale—Calantha,” he said, approaching her, “forgive me.—I ask it of you, and more, if you require it, I will kneel—will sue for it. You can make me what you please—I am wholly in your power.” “There is no need for this,” she said coldly. “I will not rise till you forgive me. If you knew all—if ... but can you indeed believe me indifferent, or cold? Look at me once: raise your eyes and behold him, who lives but in you.” “All this is useless, you have grieved me; but I do not mean to reproach, the idle complainings of a woman are ever useless.” “To think that she suffers,” said Glenarvon, “is enough. Look once—once only, look upon me.” “Let us part in peace,” she replied: “I have no complaint to make, I have nothing to forgive,” “raise your eyes, and look—Calantha look once on me.”