In that name of husband the full horror of her guilt appeared. Every event had conspired together to blast his rising fortunes, and his dawning fame. His generous forbearance to herself, was, in fact, a sacrifice of every worldly hope; for, of all sentiments, severe and just resentment from one deeply injured, is that which excites the strongest sympathy; while a contrary mode of conduct, however founded upon the highest and best qualities of a noble mind, is rarely appreciated. The cry of justice is alone supported; and the husband who spares and protects an erring wife, sacrifices his future hopes of fame and exalted reputation at the shrine of mercy and of love. She suddenly started with alarm. “What then will become of me?” she cried. “The measure of my iniquity is at its full.” Calantha’s tears fell upon her sleeping boy. He awoke, and he beheld his mother; but he could not discern the agitation of her mind. He looked on her, therefore, with that radiant look of happiness which brightens the smile of childhood; nor knew, as he snatched one kiss in haste, that it was the last, the last kiss from a mother, which ever through life should bless him with its pressure. It was now near the hour of twelve; and Mrs. Seymour cautiously approached Calantha’s bed. “Is it time?” “Not yet, my child.” “Is Sir Richard gone?” “No; he is still in his own apartment. I have written a few lines,” said Mrs. Seymour tenderly; “but if you fail, what hope is there that any thing I can say will avail?” “Had my mother lived,” said Calantha, “she had acted as you have done. You look so like her at this moment, that it breaks my heart. Thank God, she does not live, to see her child’s disgrace.” As she spoke, Calantha burst into tears, and threw her arms around her aunt’s neck. “Calm yourself, my child.” “Hear me,” said Lady Avondale. “Perhaps I shall never more see you. I have drawn down such misery upon myself, that I cannot bear up under it. If I should die,—and there is a degree of grief that kills—take care of my children. Hide from them their mother’s errors. Oh, my dear aunt, at such a moment as this, how all that attracted in life, all that appeared brilliant, fades away. What is it I have sought for? Not real happiness—not virtue, but vanity, and far worse.” “Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, as she wept over her niece, “there is much to say in palliation of thy errors. The heart is sometimes tried by prosperity; and it is in my belief the most difficult of all trials to resist. Who then shall dare to say, that there was not one single pretext, or excuse, for thy ill conduct? No wish, no desire of thine was ever ungratified. This in itself is some palliation. Speak, Calantha: fear not; for who shall plead for thee, if thou thyself art silent?”