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 cheer 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 them that the heart that is truly virtuous is ever inclined to pity and forgive the errors of its fellow-creatures.”