"Yes, we will receive her," said Mr. Temple; "we will endeavour to heal
her wounded spirit, and speak peace and comfort to her agitated soul.

I will write to her to return immediately.'
"Oh!" said Mrs. Temple, "I would if possible fly to her,

support and chear the dear sufferer in the approaching hour
of distress, and tell her how nearly penitence is allied to virtue.

Cannot we go and conduct her home, my love?" continued she,
laying her hand on his arm. "My father will surely forgive our

absence if we go to bring home his darling."
"You cannot go, my Lucy," said Mr. Temple: "the delicacy of your

frame would but poorlysustain the fatigue of a long voyage;
but I will go and bring the gentle penitent to your arms:

we may still see many years of happiness."
The struggle in the bosom of Mrs. Temple between maternal and conjugal

tenderness was long and painful. At length the former triumphed,
and she consented that her husband should set forward to New-York

by the first opportunity: she wrote to her Charlotte in the tenderest,
most consoling manner, and looked forward to the happy hour,

when she should again embrace her, with the most animated" target="_blank" title="a.栩栩如生的；活跃的">animated hope.
CHAPTER XXVI.

WHAT MIGHT BE EXPECTED.
IN the mean time the passion Montraville had conceived for Julia

Franklin daily encreased, and he saw evidently how much he was
beloved by that amiable girl: he was likewisestrongly prepossessed

with an idea of Charlotte's perfidy. What wonder then if he gave
himself up to the delightfulsensation which pervaded his bosom;

and finding no obstacle arise to oppose his happiness, he solicited
and obtained the hand of Julia. A few days before his marriage

he thus addressed Belcour:
"Though Charlotte, by her abandoned conduct, has thrown herself from

my protection, I still hold myself bound to support her till relieved
from her present condition, and also to provide for the child.

I do not intend to see her again, but I will place a sum of money
in your hands, which will amply supply her with every convenience;

but should she require more, let her have it, and I will see it repaid.
I wish I could prevail on the poor deluded girl to return to her friends:

she was an only child, and I make no doubt but that they would
joyfully receive her; it would shock me greatly to see her henceforth

leading a life of infamy, as I should always accuse myself of being
the primary cause of all her errors. If she should chuse to remain

under your protection, be kind to her, Belcour, I conjure you.
Let not satiety prompt you to treat her in such a manner,

as may drive her to actions which necessity might urge her to,
while her better reason disapproved them: she shall never want

a friend while I live, but I never more desire to behold her;
her presence would be always painful to me, and a glance from her

eye would call the blush of conscious guilt into my cheek.
"I will write a letter to her, which you may deliver when I am gone,

as I shall go to St. Eustatia the day after my union with Julia,
who will accompany me."

Belcour promised to fulfil the request of his friend, though nothing
was farther from his intentions, than the least design of delivering

the letter, or making Charlotte acquainted with the provision
Montraville had made for her; he was bent on the complete ruin

of the unhappy girl, and supposed, by reducing her to an entire
dependance on him, to bring her by degrees to consent to gratify

his ungenerous passion.
The evening before the day appointed for the nuptials of

Montraville and Julia, the former refired early to his apartment;
and ruminating on the past scenes of his life, suffered the

keenest remorse in the remembrance of Charlotte's seduction.
"Poor girl, " said he, "I will at least write and bid her adieu;

I will too endeavour to awaken that love of virtue in her bosom
which her unfortunateattachment to me has extinguished."

He took up the pen and began to write, but words were denied him.
How could he address the woman whom he had seduced, and whom, though he

thought unworthy his tenderness, he was about to bid adieu for ever?
How should he tell her that he was going to abjure her, to enter

into the most indissoluble ties with another, and that he could not
even own the infant which she bore as his child? Several letters

were begun and destroyed: at length he completed the following:
TO CHARLOTTE.

"Though I have taken up my pen to address you, my poor injured girl,
I feel I am inadequate to the task; yet, however painful the endeavour,

I could not resolve upon leaving you for ever without one kind
line to bid you adieu, to tell you how my heart bleeds at the

remembrance of what you was, before you saw the hated Montraville.
Even now imagination paints the scene, when, torn by contending passions,

when, struggling between love and duty, you fainted in my arms,
and I lifted you into the chaise: I see the agony of your mind,

when, recovering, you found yourself on the road to Portsmouth:
but how, my gentle girl, how could you, when so justly impressed

with the value of virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought
you loved me, yield to the solicitations of Belcour?

"Oh Charlotte, conscience tells me it was I, villain that I am,
who first taught you the allurements of guilty pleasure; it was I who

dragged you from the calm repose which innocence and virtue ever enjoy;
and can I, dare I tell you, it was not love prompted to the horrid deed?

No, thou dear, fallen angel, believe your repentant Montraville,
when he tells you the man who truly loves will never betray the object

of his affection. Adieu, Charlotte: could you still find charms
in a life of unoffend-ing innocence, return to your parents;

you shall never want the means of support both for yourself and child.
Oh! gracious heaven! may that child be entirely free from the vices

of its father and the weakness of its mother.
"To-morrow--but no, I cannot tell you what to-morrow will produce;

Belcour will inform you: he also has cash for you, which I beg
you will ask for whenever you may want it. Once more adieu:

believe me could I hear you was returned to your friends,
and enjoying that tranquillity of which I have robbed you,

I should be as completely happy as even you, in your fondest hours,
could wish me, but till then a gloom will obscure the brightest

prospects of MONTRAVILLE."
After he had sealed this letter he threw himself on the bed, and enjoyed

a few hours repose. Early in the morning Belcour tapped at his door:
he arose hastily, and prepared to meet his Julia at the altar.

"This is the letter to Charlotte," said he, giving it to Belcour:
"take it to her when we are gone to Eustatia; and I conjure you,

my dear friend, not to use any sophistical arguments to prevent
her return to virtue; but should she incline that way, encourage her

in the thought, and assist her to put her design in execution.
CHAPTER XXVII.

Pensive she mourn'd, and hung her languid head,
Like a fair lily overcharg'd with dew.

CHARLOTTE had now been left almost three months a prey to her own
melancholy reflexions--sad companions indeed; nor did any one

break in upon her solitude but Belcour, who once or twice called
to enquire after her health, and tell her he had in vain endeavoured

to bring Montraville to hear reason; and once, but only once,
was her mind cheared by the receipt of an affectionate letter from

Mrs. Beauchamp. Often had she wrote to her perfidious seducer,
and with the most persuasiveeloquenceendeavoured to convince him

of her innocence; but these letters were never suffered to reach
the hands of Montraville, or they must, though on the very eve

of marriage, have prevented his deserting the wretched girl.
Real anguish of heart had in a great measure faded her charms,

her cheeks were pale from want of rest, and her eyes, by frequent,
indeed almost continued weeping, were sunk and heavy.

Sometimes a gleam of hope would play about her heart when she
thought of her parents--"They cannot surely," she would say,

"refuse to forgive me; or should they deny their pardon to me,
they win not hate my innocentinfant on account of its mother's errors."

How often did the poor mourner wish for the consoling presence
of the benevolent Mrs. Beauchamp.

"If she were here," she would cry, "she would certainly comfort me,
and sooth the distraction of my soul. "

She was sitting one afternoon, wrapped in these melancholy reflexions,
when she was interrupted by the entrance of Belcour. Great as

the alteration was which incessant sorrow had made on her person,
she was still interesting, still charming; and the unhallowed flame,