It was there that Lady Margaret, who had returned from England, awaited with anxiety the promised visit of Glenarvon. Suddenly a servant entered, and informed her that a stranger, much disguised, waited to speak with her.—His name was Viviani.—He was shewn into Lady Margaret’s apartment. A long and animated conversation passed. One shriek was heard. The stranger hurried from the castle. Lady Margaret’s attendants found her cold, pale, and almost insensible. When she recovered. “Is he gone?” she said eagerly. “The stranger is gone,” they replied. Lady Margaret continued deeply agitated; she wrote to Count Gondimar, who was absent; and she endeavoured to conceal from Mrs. Seymour and the duke the dreadful alarm of her mind. She appeared at the hour of dinner, and talked even as usual of the daily news. “Lord Glenarvon sailed this morning,” said Mrs. Seymour. “I heard the same,” said Lady Margaret. “Young De Ruthven is, I understand——” “What?” said Lady Margaret, looking eagerly at her brother—“appointed to the care of Lord Glenarvon’s affairs. You know, I conclude, that he has taken his name out of the directory, and done every thing to atone for his former errors.” “Has he?” said Lady Margaret, faintly. “Poor Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour, “on her death-bed spoke of him with kindness. He was not in fault,” she said. “She bade me even plead for him, when others censured him too severely.” “It is well that the dead bear record of his virtues,” said Lady Margaret. “He has the heart of....” “Mr. Buchanan,” said a servant, entering abruptly, and, all in haste, Mr. Buchanan suddenly stood before his mother. There was no need of explanation. In one moment, Lady Margaret read in the countenance of her son, that the dreadful menace of Viviani had been fulfilled; that his absence at this period was but too effectually explained; that all was known. Buchanan, that cold relentless son, who never yet had shewn or affection, or feeling—whose indifference had seldom yielded to any stronger emotion than that of vanity, now stood before her, as calm as ever, in outward show; but the horror of his look, when he turned it upon her, convinced her that he had heard the dreadful truth. Mrs. Seymour and the duke perceiving that something important had occurred, retired. Lady Margaret and her son were, therefore, left to themselves. A moment’s pause ensued. Lady Margaret first endeavoured to break it: “I have not seen you,” she said at length, affecting calmness, “since a most melancholy scene—I mean the death of Calantha.”