Mr. Eldridge could not answer:  he took hold of his daughter’s hand and led her into the house; and sinking on the first chair he came to, burst into tears, and sobbed aloud.

“She is dead,” cried Mrs. Temple.  “Oh my dear Charlotte!” and clasping her hands in an agony of distress, fell into strong hysterics.

Mr. Temple, who had stood 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.

Mr. Temple was silent.