Before Glenarvon had met Elinor upon the cliff, he had conducted Lady Avondale to her father’s house. The first person who came forward to meet them was Sir Richard. “My dear child,” he said, “what could have induced you to take in such a serious manner what was meant in jest? There is your aunt dying in one room; and every one in fits or mad in different parts of the house. The whole thing will be known all over the country; and the worst of it is, when people talk, they never know what they say, and add, and add, till it makes a terrible story. But come in, do; for if the world speak ill of you, I will protect you: and as to my Lord Glenarvon there, why it seems after all he is a very good sort of fellow; and had no mind to have you; which is what I hinted at before you set out, and might have saved you a long walk, if you would only have listened to reason. But come in, do; for all the people are staring at you, as if they had never seen a woman before. Not but what I must say, such a comical one, so hot and hasty, I never happened to meet with; which is my fault, and not yours. Therefore, come in; for I hate people to do any thing that excites observation. There now; did not I tell you so? Here are all your relations perfectly crazy: and we shall have a scene in the great hall, if you don’t make haste and get up stairs before they meet you.” “Where is she? where is she?” said Mrs. Seymour; and she wept at beholding her. But Calantha could not weep: her heart seemed like ice within her: she could neither weep nor speak. “My child, my Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, “welcome back.” Then turning to Glenarvon, whose tears flowed fast, “receive my prayers, my thanks for this,” she exclaimed. “God reward you for restoring my child to me.” “Take her,” said Lord Glenarvon, placing Calantha in Mrs. Seymour’s arms; “and be assured, I give to you what is dearer to me, far dearer than existence. I do for your sake what I would not for any other: I give up that which I sought, and won, and would have died to retain—that which would have made life dear, and which, being taken from me, leaves me again to a dull blank, and dreary void. Oh! feel for what I have resisted; and forgive the past.” “I cannot utter my thanks,” said Mrs. Seymour. “Generous Glenarvon! God reward you for it, and bless you.” She gave him her hand.