too horrible to repeat. Stung to the soul, she refused to enter the dining-*room; and, hastening with fury to her own apartment, gave vent to the storm of passion by which she was wholly overpowered. There, unhappily, she found a letter from her lover—all kindness, all warmth. "One still there is," she said, "who loves, who feels for the guilty, the fallen Calantha." Every word she read, and compared with the cold neglect of others, or their severity and contempt. There was none to fold her to their bosom, and draw her back from certain perdition. She even began to think with Glenarvon, that they wished her gone. Some feelings of false honor, too, inclined her to think she ought to leave a situation, for which she now must consider herself wholly unfit.
But there was one voice which still recalled her:—it was her child's. "My boy will awake, and find me gone—he shall never have to reproach his mother." And
