Days again passed in fruitless expectation; nights, in unceasing wakefulness and grief. At length one morning, a letter was put into Lady Avondale’s hands. It was from Glenarvon. It is impossible to describe the joy, the transport of that moment; nor how, pressing it to her lips, she returned thanks to God for receiving, what it was a crime against that Being thus to value. She glanced her eye over the superscription; but she durst not open it. She dreaded lest some cause should be assigned for so long a silence, which might appear less kind than what she could easily endure. The seal was not his seal; and the black wax, so constantly his custom to use, was exchanged for red. The motto upon the seal (for lovers attend to all) was not that which at all times he made use of when addressing Calantha. It was a seal she knew too well. A strange foreboding that he was changed, filled her mind. She was prepared for the worst, as she apprehended. At last she broke the seal; but she was not prepared for the following words written by his own hand, and thus addressed to her. Oh! had he the heart to write them? Mortanville Priory, November the 9th. Lady Avondale, I am no longer your lover; and since you oblige me to confess it, by this truly unfeminine persecution,—learn, that I am attached to another; whose name it would of course be dishonourable to mention. I shall ever remember with gratitude the many instances I have received of the predilection you have shewn in my favour. I shall ever continue your friend, if your ladyship will permit me so to style myself; and, as a first proof of my regard, I offer you this advice, correct your vanity, which is ridiculous; exert your absurd caprices upon others; and leave me in peace. Your most obedient servant, GLENARVON. This letter was sealed and directed by Lady Mandeville; but the hand that wrote it was Lord Glenarvon’s; and therefore it had its full effect. Yes; it went as it was intended, to the very heart; and the wound thus given, was as deep as the most cruel enemy could have desired. The grief of a mother for the loss of her child has been described, though the hand of the painter fails ever in expressing the agonies of that moment. The sorrows of a mistress when losing the lover she adores, has been the theme of every age. Poetry and painting, have exhausted the expression of her despair, and painted to the life, that which themselves could conceive—could feel and understand. Every one can sympathise with their sufferings; and that which others commiserate, is felt with less agony by ourselves. But who can sympathize with guilt, or who lament the just reward of crime?