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."
"True," he cried, fixing her with
