it soothed the turbulence of his passions, it brought increase of melancholy reflections.  Julia was leaning on his arm:  he took her hand in his, and pressing it tenderly, sighed deeply, but continued silent.  Julia was embarrassed; she wished to break a silence so unaccountable, but was unable; she loved Montraville, she saw he was unhappy, and wished to know the cause of his uneasiness, but that innate modesty, which nature has implanted in the female breast, prevented her enquiring.  “I am bad company, Miss Franklin,” said he, at last recollecting himself; “but I have met with something to-day that has greatly distressed me, and I cannot shake off the disagreeable impression it has made on my mind.”

“I am sorry,” she replied, “that you have any cause of inquietude.  I am sure if you were as happy as you deserve, and as all your friends wish you—­” She hesitated.  “And might I,” replied he with some animation, “presume to rank the amiable Julia in that number?”

“Certainly,” said she, “the service you have rendered me, the knowledge of your worth, all combine to make me esteem you.”

“Esteem, my lovely Julia,” said he passionately, “is but a poor cold word.  I would if I dared, if I thought I merited your attention—­but no, I must not—­honour forbids.  I am beneath your notice, Julia, I am miserable and cannot hope to be otherwise.”  “Alas!” said Julia, “I pity you.”

“Oh thou condescending charmer,” said he, “how that sweet word cheers my sad heart.  Indeed if you knew all, you would pity; but at the same time I fear you would despise me.”

Just then they were again joined by Mr. Franklin and Belcour.  It had interrupted an interesting discourse.  They found it impossible to converse on indifferent subjects, and proceeded home in silence.  At Mr. Franklin’s door Montraville again pressed Julia’s hand, and faintly articulating “good night,” retired to his lodgings dispirited and wretched, from a consciousness that he deserved not the affection, with which he plainly saw he was honoured.

CHAPTER XXV.

Reception of A letter.

“And where now is our poor Charlotte?” said Mr. Temple one evening, as the cold blasts of autumn whistled rudely over the heath, and the yellow appearance of the distant wood, spoke the near approach of winter.  In vain the cheerful fire blazed on the hearth, in vain was he surrounded by all the comforts of life; the parent was still alive in his heart, and when he thought that perhaps his once darling child was ere this exposed to all the miseries of want in a distant land, without a friend to sooth and comfort her, without the benignant look of compassion to cheer, or the angelic voice of pity to pour the balm of consolation on her wounded heart; when he thought of this, his whole soul dissolved in tenderness; and while he wiped the tear of anguish from the eye of his patient, uncomplaining Lucy, he struggled to suppress the sympathizing drop that started in his own.