durst not look upon him. She could not stand the reproachful glances of that eye, that dark eye which sometimes softened into love, then flamed again into the fire of resentment. She knelt not for mercy: she prayed not for pardon: a gloomy pride supported her; and the dark frown that lowered over his features was answered by the calm of fixed despair.
They were alone. Lord Avondale, upon arriving, had sought her in her own apartment: he had heard of her illness. The duke had repeatedly implored him to return; he had at length tardily obeyed the summons. After a silence of some moments: "Have I deserved this?" he cried. "Oh Calantha, have I indeed deserved it?" She made no answer to this appeal. "There was a time," he said, "when I knew how to address you—when the few cares and vexations, that ever intruded themselves, were lightened by your presence; and forgotten in
