He said, and smiled——that smile so gentle and persuasive, that only to behold it was to love. Suddenly he beheld before him on the smooth wave a form so pale, so changed, that, but for the sternness of that brow, the fixed and hollow gaze of that dark eye, he had not recognized, in the fearful spectre, the form of Lord Avondale “Speak your reproaches as a man would utter them,” he said. “Ask of me the satisfaction due for injuries; but stand not thus before me, like a dream, in the glare of day—like a grim vision of the night, in the presence of thousands.”—The stern glazed eye moved not: the palpable form continued. Lord Glenarvon gazed till his eyes were strained with the effort, and every faculty was benumbed and overpowered. Then fell a drowsiness over his senses which he could not conquer; and he said to those who addressed him, “I am ill:—watch by me whilst I sleep.” He threw himself upon his cloak, listless and fatigued, and sunk into a heavy sleep. But his slumbers were broken and disturbed; and he could not recover from the unusual depression of his spirits. Every event of his short life crowded fast upon his memory:—scenes long forgotten recurred:—he thought of broken vows, of hearts betrayed, and of all the perjuries and treacheries of a life given up to love. But reproaches and bitterness saddened over every dear remembrance, and he participated, when too late, in the sufferings he had inflicted. All was now profoundly still: the third watch sounded. The lashing of the waves against the sides of the ship—the gentle undulating motion, again lulled a weary and perturbed spirit to repose. Suddenly upon the air he heard a fluttering, like the noise of wings, which fanned him while he slept. Gazing intently, he fancied he beheld a fleeting shadow pass up and down before him, as if the air, thickening into substance, became visible to the eye, till it produced a form clothed in angelic beauty and unearthly brightness. It was some moments before he could bring to his remembrance whom it resembled,—till a smile, all cheering, and a look of one he had seen in happier days, told him it was Calantha. Her hair flowed loosely on her shoulders, while a cloud of resplendent white supported her in the air, and covered her partly from his view. Her eyes shone with serene lustre; and her cheeks glowed with the freshness of health:—not as when impaired by sickness and disease, he had seen her last—not as when disappointment and the sorrows of the world had worn her youthful form—but renovated, young, and bright, with superior glory she now met his ardent gaze; and, in a voice more sweet than music, thus addressed him: