Upon the lake the boats, adorned with many coloured ribbands, sailed with the breeze. Bands of music played underneath the tents which were erected for refreshments. The evening was bright and cloudless. Elinor was the first and latest in the dance—the life and spirit of the joyous scene. Some shrunk back it is true at first, when they beheld her; but when they saw her smile, and that look of winning candour, which even innocence at times forgets to wear, that playful youthful manner, re-assured them. “Can it be possible!” said Calantha, when the music ceased, and the villagers dispersed—“can you indeed affect this gaiety, or do you feel it, St. Clare?” “I feel it,” cried the girl, laughing archly. “The shafts of love shall never pierce me; and sorrows, though they fall thicker than the rain of Heaven, shall never break my heart.” “Oh! teach me to endure afflictions thus. Is it religion that supports you?” “Religion!” St. Clare sighed. “Yon bright heaven,” she said, uplifting her eyes, “is not for me. The time has been, when, like you, I could have wept, and bowed beneath the chastening rod of adversity; but it is past. Turn you, and repent lady; for you are but young in sin, and the heart alone has wandered. Turn to that God of mercy, and he will yet receive and reclaim you.” A tear started into her eyes, as she spoke. “I must journey on; for the time allowed me is short. Death walks among us even now. Look at yon lordly mansion—your father’s house. Is it well defended from within? Are there bold hearts ready to stand forth in the time of need? Where is the heir of Delaval:—look to him:—even now they tear him from you. The fiends, the fiends are abroad:—look to your husband, lady—the gallant Earl of Avondale: red is the uniform he wears; black is the charger upon which he rides; but the blood of his heart shall flow. It is a bloody war we are going to: this is the year of horror!!! Better it were never to have been born, than to have lived in an age like this.” “Unhappy maniac,” said a voice from behind. It was the voice of the Bard Camioli: “unhappy St. Clare!” he said. She turned; but he was gone. Every one now surrounded Miss St. Clare, requesting her to sing. “Oh I cannot sing,” she replied, with tears, appealing to Calantha; then added lower—“my soul is in torture. That was a father’s voice, risen from the grave to chide me.”