me, what I feel from my soul for you, then you shall accompany me from hence. Avondale may easily find another wife, but the world contains for me but one Calantha.” Lady Avondale felt happy.—Shame on the guilty heart that dared to feel so! but alas, whilst Glenarvon thus addressed her, she did feel most happy. In a moment, the gloom that had overshadowed her future hopes, was dispelled. She saw her lover—her friend more than ever united to her. He consented even to respect what remaining virtue she had left, and from his gentle, his courteous words, it was not her wish to escape. Yet still she resolved to leave him. Now, that peace was again restored, that her irritated mind was calm, that her vanity was flattered, and her pride satisfied, now the admonitions of her aunt recurred, and even while her heart beat fondest for him, she pronounced her own doom, and declared to him that she would tear herself away from him for ever. “Perhaps this must be,” he said, after a moment’s pause; “but not yet, Calantha, ah not yet.” As he spoke, he again pressed her to his bosom, and his tears fell over her. Oh! had he not thus wept, Calantha had not loved him. Struggling with his feelings for her, he generously resolved to save, to spare her. “Remember this,” he said, “when they condemn me.—Remember, Calantha, what I have done for you; how I have respected you; and let not their idle clamours prevail.” Lady Avondale was too happy to feel vain. Glenarvon loved, as she never had been loved before, every hour—every moment of each passing day he seemed alone intent, and occupied with her; he wrote his minutest thoughts; he counselled, he did not command. He saw that power, ambition, was her ruling passion, and by affecting to be ruled, he completely mastered her—in word, in look, in thought, he was devoted to her. Other men think only of themselves; Glenarvon conquered himself a thousand times for her. What is a momentary, a degrading passion to the enjoyment she felt in his society? It only lowers the object of its fancy, he sought to raise her even in her own esteem. “Forgive her, pity us,” he said, addressing Mrs. Seymour, who saw in a moment, with alarm, their reconciliation. “Drive us not to despair, I will respect her—will preserve her, if you do not attempt to tear her from me, but dread the violence of madness, if you reduce us to the last rash step. Oh dread the violence of a mad and incurable attachment.”