od speechless with surprize and fear, now
ventured to enquire if indeed his Charlotte was no more. Mr. Eldridge
led him into another apartment; and putting the fatal note into
his hand, cried--"Bear it like a Christian," and turned from him,
endeavouring to suppress his own too visible emotions.

It would be vain to attempt describing what Mr. Temple felt whilst he
hastily ran over the dreadful lines: when he had finished, the paper
dropt from his unnerved hand. "Gracious heaven!" said he, "could
Charlotte act thus?" Neither tear nor sigh escaped him; and he sat
the image of mute sorrow, till roused from his stupor by the repeated
shrieks of Mrs. Temple. He rose hastily, and rushing into the apartment
where she was, folded his arms about her, and saying--"Let us be
patient, my dear Lucy," nature relieved his almost bursting heart by a
friendly gush of tears.

Should any one, presuming on his own philosophic temper, look with an
eye of contempt on the man who could indulge a woman's weakness, let him
remember that man was a father, and he will then pity the misery which
wrung those drops from a noble, generous heart.

Mrs. Temple beginning to be a little more composed, but still imagining
her child was dead, her husband, gently taking her hand, cried--"You are
mistaken, my love. Charlotte is not dead."

"Then she is very ill, else why did she not come? But I will go to her:
the chaise is still at the door: let me go instantly to the dear girl.
If I was ill, she would fly to attend me, to alleviate my sufferings,
and cheer me with her love."

"Be calm, my dearest Lucy, and I will tell you all," said Mr. Temple.
"You must not go, indeed you must not; it will be of no use."

"Temple," said she, assuming a look of firmness and composure, "tell
me the truth I beseech you. I cannot bear this dreadful suspense. What
misfortune has befallen my child? Let me know the worst, and I will
endeavour to bear it as I ought."

"Lucy," replied Mr. Temple, "imagine your daughter alive, and in no
danger of death: what misfortune would you then dread?"

"There is one misfortune which is worse than death. But I know my child
too well to suspect--"

"Be not too confident, Lucy."

"Oh heavens!" said she, "what horrid images do you start: is it possible
she should forget--"

"She has forgot us all, my love; she has preferred the love of a
stranger to the affectionate protection of her friends.

"Not eloped?" cried she eagerly.