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Preserving, during the evening, a sullen silence, an affectation of offended pride, Calantha retired early; looked once upon the portraits of her husband and mother; and then turned from them in agony. "He was all kindness to me—all goodness: he deserved a happier fate. Happier! alas he is blest: I alone suffer—I alone am miserable; never, never can I behold him more." These were the last words Calantha uttered, as she prepared for an interview she dreaded. It was now but twelve o'clock: she threw herself upon her bed, and waited in trepidation and alarm for the hour of three. A knock at the door aroused her. It was O'Kelly; but he waited not one instant: he left a gold casket with a ring, within was a letter: "My beloved," it said, "I wait for thee. Oh repent not thy promise." Nothing else was written. The hand she well knew: the signature was. "Ever and thine alone, Glenarvon."