his reply, alarmed her.

"You are not well," said she; "your hand is hot; your eyes are heavy;
you are very ill. "

"I am a villain," said he mentally, as he turned from her to
hide his emotions.

"But come," continued she tenderly, "you shall go to bed, and I will
sit by, and watch you; you will be better when you have slept. "

Montraville was glad to retire, and by pretending sleep,
hide the agitation of his mind from her penetrating eye.

Charlotte watched by him till a late hour, and then, lying softly
down by his side, sunk into a profound sleep, from whence she awoke

not till late the next morning.
CHAPTER XX.

Virtue never appears so amiable as when reaching forth
her hand to raise a fallen sister.

CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS.
WHEN Charlotte awoke, she missed Montraville; but thinking

he might have arisen early to enjoy the beauties of the morning,
she was preparing to follow him, when casting her eye on the table,

she saw a note, and opening it hastily, found these words--
"My dear Charlotte must not be surprised, if she does not see me again

for some time: unavoidable business will prevent me that pleasure:
be assured I am quite well this morning; and what your fond

imagination magnified into illness, was nothing more than fatigue,
which a few hours rest has entirely removed. Make yourself happy,

and be certain of the unalterable friendship of
"MONTRAVILLE."

"FRIENDSHIP!" said Charlotte emphatically, as she finished the note,
"is it come to this at last? Alas! poor, forsaken Charlotte,

thy doom is now but too apparent. Montraville is no longer
interested in thy happiness; and shame, remorse, and disappointed

love will henceforth be thy only attendants. "
Though these were the ideas that involuntarily rushed upon the mind

of Charlotte as she perused the fatal note, yet after a few hours
had elapsed, the syren Hope again took possession of her bosom,

and she flattered herself she could, on a second perusal,
discover an air of tenderness in the few lines he had left,

which at first had escaped her notice.
"He certainly cannot be so base as to leave me," said she,

"and in stiling himself my friend does he not promise to protect me.
I will not torment myself with these causeless fears; I will place

a confidence in his honour; and sure he will not be so unjust
as to abuse it."

Just as she had by this manner of reasoning brought her mind to some
tolerable degree of composure, she was surprised by a visit from Belcour.

The dejection visible in Charlotte's countenance, her swoln eyes
and neglected attire, at once told him she was unhappy: he made no

doubt but Montraville had, by his coldness, alarmed her suspicions,
and was resolved" target="_blank" title="a.决心的；坚定的">resolved, if possible, to rouse her to jealousy, urge her

to reproach him, and by that means occasion a breach between them.
"If I can once convince her that she has a rival," said he,

"she will listen to my passion if it is only to revenge his slights."
Belcour knew but little of the female heart; and what he did

know was only of those of loose and dissolute lives.
He had no idea that a woman might fall a victim to imprudence,

and yet retain so strong a sense of honour, as to reject
with horror and contempt every solicitation to a second fault.

He never imagined that a gentle, generousfemale heart,
once tenderly attached, when treated with unkindness might break,

but would never harbour a thought of revenge.
His visit was not long, but before he went he fixed a scorpion

in the heart of Charlotte, whose venom embittered every future hour
of her life.

We will now return for a moment to Colonel Crayton. He had been
three months married, and in that little time had discovered that

the conduct of his lady was not so prudent as it ought to have been:
but remonstrance was vain; her temper was violent; and to the Colonel's

great misfortune he had conceived a sincereaffection for her:
she saw her own power, and, with the art of a Circe, made every

action appear to him in what light she pleased: his acquaintance
laughed at his blindness, his friends pitied his infatuation,

his amiable daughter, Mrs. Beauchamp, in secret deplored the loss
of her father's affection, and grieved that he should be so entirely

swayed by an artful, and, she much feared, infamous woman.
Mrs. Beauchamp was mild and engaging; she loved not the hurry

and bustle of a city, and had prevailed on her husband to take
a house a few miles from New-York. Chance led her into the same

neighbourhood with Charlotte; their houses stood within a short space
of each other, and their gardens joined: she had not been long

in her new habitation before the figure of Charlotte struck her;
she recollected her interesting features; she saw the melancholy so

conspicuous in her countenance, and her heart bled at the reflection,
that perhaps deprived of honour, friends, all that was valuable

in life, she was doomed to linger out a wretchedexistence in a
strange land, and sink broken-hearted into an untimely grave.

"Would to heaven I could snatch her from so hard a fate," said she;
"but the merciless world has barred the doors of compassion

against a poor weak girl, who, perhaps, had she one kind friend
to raise and reassure her, would gladly return to peace and virtue;

nay, even the woman who dares to pity, and endeavour to recall
a wandering sister, incurs the sneer of contempt and ridicule,

for an action in which even angels are said to rejoice."
The longer Mrs. Beauchamp was a witness to the solitary life Charlotte led,

the more she wished to speak to her, and often as she saw her cheeks
wet with the tears of anguish, she would say--"Dear sufferer,

how gladly would I pour into your heart the balm of consolation,
were it not for the fear of derision."

But an accident soon happened which made her resolve to brave
even the scoffs of the world, rather than not enjoy the heavenly

satisfaction of comforting a desponding fellow-creature.
Mrs. Beauchamp was an early riser. She was one morning walking

in the garden, leaning on her husband's arm, when the sound of a harp
attracted their notice: they listened attentively, and heard a soft

melodious voice distinctly sing the following stanzas:
Thou glorious orb, supremely bright,

Just rising from the sea,
To chear all nature with thy light,

What are thy beams to me?
In vain thy glories bid me rise,

To hail the new-born day,
Alas! my morning sacrifice

Is still to weep and pray.
For what are nature's charms combin'd,

To one, whose weary breast
Can neither peace nor comfort find,

Nor friend whereon to rest?
Oh! never! never! whilst I live

Can my heart's anguish cease:
Come, friendly death, thy mandate give,

And let me be at peace.
"'Tis poor Charlotte!" said Mrs. Beauchamp, the pellucid drop

of humanity stealing down her cheek.
Captain Beauchamp was alarmed at her emotion. "What Charlotte?"

said he; "do you know her?"
In the accent of a pitying angel did she disclose to her husband

Charlotte's unhappy situation, and the frequent wish she had
formed of being serviceable to her. "I fear," continued she,

"the poor girl has been basely betrayed; and if I thought you would
not blame me, I would pay her a visit, offer her my friendship,

and endeavour to restore to her heart that peace she seems to have lost,
and so pathetically laments. Who knows, my dear," laying her hand

affectionately on his arm, "who knows but she has left some kind,
affectionate parents to lament her errors, and would she return,

they might with rapture receive the poor penitent, and wash away
her faults in tears of joy. Oh! what a glorious reflexion would

it be for me could I be the happy instrument of restoring her.
Her heart may not be depraved, Beauchamp."

"Exalted woman!" cried Beauchamp, embracing her, "how dost thou
rise every moment in my esteem. Follow the impulse of thy

generous heart, my Emily. Let prudes and fools censure if they dare,
and blame a sensibility they never felt; I will exultingly tell