well-known topics; but he was Lord Avondale's uncle, and that thought made every thing he uttered interesting to her.
"You love," said Alice Mac Allain, one day to her mistress, as they wandered in silence along the banks of the river Elle, "and he who made you alone can tell to what these madning fires may drive a heart like yours. Remember your bracelet—remember your promises to Buchanan; and learn, before it is too late, in some measure to controul yourself, and disguise your feelings." Calantha started from Alice; for love, when it first exists, is so timid, so sacred, that it fears the least breath of observation, and disguises itself under every borrowed name. "You are wrong," said Calantha, "I would not bend my free spirit to the weakness of which you would accuse me, for all the world can offer; your Calantha will never acknowledge a master; will never yield her soul's free and immortal hopes, to any earthly affection.
