princess, of an epidemic disorder; but of this, who can be secure? Perhaps, alas! one yet remains to punish the flippant tongue, that dared to assert they were no more. But to return from this digression. CHAPTER CVI. At Allenwater the roses were yet in bloom: and the clematis and honeysuckle twined beneath the latticed windows, whilst through the flower gardens the stream of Allen flowed smooth and clear. Every object around breathed the fragrance of plants—the charms and sweets of nature. The heat of summer had not parched its verdant meads, and autumn’s yellow tints had but just touched the shadowy leaf. Wearied with scenes of woe, Lord Avondale, having broken from society and friends, had retired to this retreat—a prey to the fever of disappointment and regret—wounded by the hand of his adversary, but still more effectually destroyed by the unkindness and inconstancy of his friend. Sir Richard, before the last engagement, in which he lost his life, called at Allenwater.—“How is your master?” he said, in a hurried manner. “He is ill,” said James Collingwood. “He will rise from his bed no more.” Sir Richard pressed forward; and trembling exceedingly, entered Lord Avondale’s room.—“Who weeps so sadly by a dying father’s bed?” “It is Harry Mowbrey, Calantha’s child, the little comforter of many a dreary hour. The apt remark of enquiring youth, the joyous laugh of childhood, have ceased. The lesson repeated daily to an anxious parent has been learned with more than accustomed assiduity: but in vain. Nature at last has given way:—the pale emaciated form—the hand which the damps of death have chilled, feebly caresses the weeping boy.” James Collingwood stood by his master’s side, his sorrowful countenance contrasting sadly with that military air which seemed to disdain all exhibition of weakness; and with him, the sole other attendant of his sufferings, Cairn of Coleraine, who once in this same spot had welcomed Calantha, then a fair and lovely bride, spotless in vestal purity, and dearer to his master’s heart than the very life-blood that gave it vigour. He now poured some opiate drops into a glass, and placed it in the feeble hand which was stretched forth to receive it. “Ah! father, do not leave me,” said his little son, pressing towards him. “My mother looked as you do before she left me: and will you go also? What then will become of me?” Tears gushed into Lord Avondale’s eyes, and trickled down his faded cheeks. “God will bless and protect my boy,” he said, endeavouring to raise himself sufficiently to press his little cherub lips. It was like a blushing rose, placed by the hand of affection upon a lifeless corpse—so healthful bloomed the child, so pale the parent stem!