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 any of the fierce passions that disturb mankind; but her voice was such as to shake every fibre of the heart, and might soon have betrayed to an experienced observer the empassioned violence of her real character.

Sir Everard, who had one day accompanied Calantha to the convent, asked his niece in a half serious, half jesting manner, concerning her gift of prophecy. "Have not all this praying and fasting, cured you of it, my little Sybel?" he said.—"No," replied the girl; "but that which you are so proud of, makes me sad:—it is this alone which keeps me from the sports which delight my companions:—it is this which makes me weep when the sun shines bright in the clear heavens, and the bosom of the sea is calm."—"Will you shew us a specimen of your art?" said Sir Everard, eagerly.—Miss St. Clare coloured, and smiling archly at him, "The inspiration is not on