Stung to the soul, Glenarvon started; and gazed on her with malignant rage: then grinding his teeth with all the horror of supprest rage, “I am not a fly to be trodden upon, but a viper that shall sting thee to the heart. Farewell for ever,” he cried, rushing from her. Then returning one moment with calmness, and smiling on her, “you have not grieved me,” he said gently: “I am not angry, my fair mistress. We shall meet again: fear not we shall meet again.” “Now I am lost,” said Lady Margaret, when he was gone. “I know by that smile that my fate is sealed.” There is nothing so uncongenial to the sorrowing heart as gaiety and mirth; yet Calantha was at this time condemned to witness it. No sickness, no sufferings of its owners, prevented extraordinary festivities at the castle. Upon the evening of the celebration of Buchanan’s marriage, there were revels and merry-making as in happier times; and the peasantry and tenants, forgetful of their cabals and wrongs, all appeared to partake in the general festivity. The ribband of green was concealed beneath large bouquets of flowers; and healths and toasts went round with tumults of applause, regardless of the sorrows of the owners of the castle. The lawn was covered with dancers. It was a cheerful scene; and even Calantha smiled, as she leant upon her father’s arm, and gazed upon the joyful countenances which surrounded her; but it was the smile of one whose heart was breaking, and every tenant as he passed by and greeted her looked upon the father and the child, and sighed at the change which had taken place in the appearance of both. Suddenly, amidst the dancers, with a light foot, as if springing from the earth, there appeared, lovely in beauty and in youth, the fairest flower of Belfont. It was Miss St. Clare. No longer enveloped in her dark flowing mantle, she danced amidst the village maidens, the gayest there. She danced with all the skill of art, and all the grace of nature. Her dress was simple and light as the web of the gossamer: her ringlets, shining in the bright sun-beams, sported with the wind: red was her cheek as the first blush of love, or the rose of summer, when it opens to the sun.