“From the deep recesses of a guilty, yet not humble heart, in the agony and the hopelessness of despair,” said Calantha, “I acknowledge before God and before man, that for me there is no excuse. I have felt, I have enjoyed every happiness, every delight, the earth can offer. Its vanities, its pleasures, its transports have been mine; and in all instances I have misused the power with which I have been too much and too long entrusted. Oh, may the God of worlds innumerable, who scatters his blessings upon all, and maketh his rain to fall upon the sinner, as upon the righteous, extend his mercy even unto me.” “Can I do any thing for you, my child?” said Mrs. Seymour. “Speak for me to Sophia and Frances,” said Calantha, “and say one word for me to the good and the kind; for indeed I have ever found the really virtuous most kind. As to the rest, if any of those with whom I passed my happier days remember me, tell them, that even in this last sad hour I think with affection of them; and say, that when I look back even now with melancholy pleasure upon a career, which, though short, was gay and brilliant—upon happiness, which though too soon misused and thrown away, was real and great, it is the remembrance of my friends, and companions—it is the thought of their affection and kindness, which adds to and imbitters every regret—for that kindness was lavished in vain. Tell them I do not hope that my example can amend them: they will not turn from one wrong pursuit for me; they will not compare themselves with Calantha; they have not an Avondale to leave and to betray. Yet when they read my history—if amidst the severity of justice which such a narrative must excite, some feelings of forgiveness and pity should arise, perhaps the prayer of one, who has suffered much, may ascend for them, and the thanks of a broken heart be accepted in return.” Mrs. Seymour wept, and promised to perform Calantha’s wishes. She was still with her, when Mac Allain knocked at the door, and whispered, that all was in readiness. “Explain every thing to my father,” said Calantha, again embracing her aunt; “and now farewell.” CHAPTER LXXXVIII.