I hope, Sir, your prejudices are now removed in regard to the probability of my story?  Oh they are.  Well then, with your leave, I will proceed.

The distance from the house which our suffering heroine occupied, to New-York, was not very great, yet the snow fen so fast, and the cold so intense, that, being unable from her situation to walk quick, she found herself almost sinking with cold and fatigue before she reached the town; her garments, which were merely suitable to the summer season, being an undress robe of plain white muslin, were wet through, and a thin black cloak and bonnet, very improper habiliments for such a climate, but poorly defended her from the cold.  In this situation she reached the city, and enquired of a foot soldier whom she met, the way to Colonel Crayton’s.

“Bless you, my sweet lady,” said the soldier with a voice and look of compassion, “I will shew you the way with all my heart; but if you are going to make a petition to Madam Crayton it is all to no purpose I assure you:  if you please I will conduct you to Mr. Franklin’s; though Miss Julia is married and gone now, yet the old gentleman is very good.”

“Julia Franklin,” said Charlotte; “is she not married to Montraville?”

“Yes,” replied the soldier, “and may God bless them, for a better officer never lived, he is so good to us all; and as to Miss Julia, all the poor folk almost worshipped her.”

“Gracious heaven,” cried Charlotte, “is Montraville unjust then to none but me.”

The soldier now shewed her Colonel Crayton’s door, and, with a beating heart, she knocked for admission.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Subject continued.

When the door was opened, Charlotte, in a voice rendered scarcely articulate, through cold and the extreme agitation of her mind, demanded whether Mrs. Crayton was at home.  The servant hesitated:  he knew that his lady was engaged at a game of picquet with her dear Corydon, nor could he think she would like to be disturbed by a person whose appearance spoke her of so little consequence as Charlotte; yet there was something in her countenance that rather interested him in her favour, and he said his lady was engaged, but if she had any particular message he would deliver it.

“Take up this letter,” said Charlotte:  “tell her the unhappy writer of it waits in her hall for an answer.”  The tremulous accent, the tearful eye, must have moved any heart not composed of adamant.  The man took the letter from the poor suppliant, and hastily ascended the stair case.

“A letter, Madam,” said he, presenting it to his lady:  “an immediate answer is required.”

Mrs. Crayton glanced her eye carelessly over the contents.  “What stuff is this;” cried she haughtily; “have not I told you a thousand times that I will not be plagued with beggars, and petitions from people one knows nothing about?  Go tell the woman I can’t do any thing in it.  I’m sorry, but one can’t relieve every body.”