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CHAPTER XXVII.
From the night of the masquerade, Lady Avondale dared hardly confess to herself, how entirely she found her thoughts engrossed by Buchanan. She met him again at a ball. He entreated her to let him call on her the ensuing day:—he said he had much to tell her:—his manner was peculiar; and his eyes, though not full of meaning in general, had a certain look of interest that gratified the vainest of human hearts. "I shall be at home till two," said Calantha. "I shall be with you at twelve," he answered.—Late as the hour of rest might appear to some, Calantha was up, and attired with no ordinary care to receive him, at the time he had appointed. Yet no Buchanan came.—Oh! could the petty triflers in vanity and vice, know the power they
