“You think too meanly of yourself, Miss Temple:  there is no one who would dare to treat you with contempt:  all who have the pleasure of knowing you must admire and esteem.  You are lonely here, my dear girl; give me leave to conduct you to New-York, where the agreeable society of some ladies, to whom I will introduce you, will dispel these sad thoughts, and I shall again see returning cheerfulness animate those lovely features.”

“Oh never! never!” cried Charlotte, emphatically:  “the virtuous part of my sex will scorn me, and I will never associate with infamy.  No, Belcour, here let me hide my shame and sorrow, here let me spend my few remaining days in obscurity, unknown and unpitied, here let me die unlamented, and my name sink to oblivion.”  Here her tears stopped her utterance.  Belcour was awed to silence:  he dared not interrupt her; and after a moment’s pause she proceeded—­“I once had conceived the thought of going to New-York to seek out the still dear, though cruel, ungenerous Montraville, to throw myself at his feet, and entreat his compassion; heaven knows, not for myself; if I am no longer beloved, I will not be indebted to his pity to redress my injuries, but I would have knelt and entreated him not to forsake my poor unborn—­” She could say no more; a crimson glow rushed over her cheeks, and covering her face with her hands, she sobbed aloud.

Something like humanity was awakened in Belcour’s breast by this pathetic speech:  he arose and walked towards the window; but the selfish passion which had taken possession of his heart, soon stifled these finer emotions; and he thought if Charlotte was once convinced she had no longer any dependance on Montraville, she would more readily throw herself on his protection.  Determined, therefore, to inform her of all that had happened, he again resumed his seat; and finding she began to be more composed, enquired if she had ever heard from Montraville since the unfortunate recontre in her bed chamber.

“Ah no,” said she.  “I fear I shall never hear from him again.”

“I am greatly of your opinion,” said Belcour, “for he has been for some time past greatly attached—­”

At the word “attached” a death-like paleness overspread the countenance of Charlotte, but she applied to some hartshorn which stood beside her, and Belcour proceeded.

“He has been for some time past greatly attached to one Miss Franklin, a pleasing lively girl, with a large fortune.”

“She may be richer, may be handsomer,” cried Charlotte, “but cannot love him so well.  Oh may she beware of his art, and not trust him too far as I have done.”

“He addresses her publicly,” said he, “and it was rumoured they were to be married before he sailed for Eustatia, whither his company is ordered.”

“Belcour,” said Charlotte, seizing his hand, and gazing at him earnestly, while her pale lips trembled with convulsive agony, “tell me, and tell me truly, I beseech you, do you think he can be such a villain as to marry another woman, and leave me to die with want and misery in a strange land:  tell me what you think; I can bear it very well; I will not shrink from this heaviest stroke of fate; I have deserved my afflictions, and I will endeavour to bear them as I ought.”