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 every casual praise which, even from the lips of strangers, was bestowed on Calantha, gave him more delight than any profession, however flattering, that could have been made to himself. To see her blest was his sole desire; and when he observed the change in her manner and spirits, it grieved, it tortured him:—he sought, but in vain, to remove it. At length business of importance called him from her. "Write," he said, at parting, "write, as you once used. My presence has given but little satisfaction to you; I dare not hope my absence will create pain." "Farewell," said Lady Avondale, with assumed coldness. "There are false hearts in this world, and crimes are enacted, Henry, at home ofttimes, as well as abroad. Confide in no one. Believe not what your own eyes perceive. Life is but as the shadow of a dream. All here is illusion. We know not whom we love."

How happy some may imagine—how happy Calantha must have felt now that