Being asked how she found herself, she replied—­“Why better, much better, doctor.  I hope now I have but little more to suffer.  I had last night a few hours sleep, and when I awoke recovered the full power of recollection.  I am quite sensible of my weakness; I feel I have but little longer to combat with the shafts of affliction.  I have an humble confidence in the mercy of him who died to save the world, and trust that my sufferings in this state of mortality, joined to my unfeigned repentance, through his mercy, have blotted my offences from the sight of my offended maker.  I have but one care—­my poor infant!  Father of mercy,” continued she, raising her eyes, “of thy infinite goodness, grant that the sins of the parent be not visited on the unoffending child.  May those who taught me to despise thy laws be forgiven; lay not my offences to their charge, I beseech thee; and oh! shower the choicest of thy blessings on those whose pity has soothed the afflicted heart, and made easy even the bed of pain and sickness.”

She was exhausted by this fervent address to the throne of mercy, and though her lips still moved her voice became inarticulate:  she lay for some time as it were in a doze, and then recovering, faintly pressed Mrs. Beauchamp’s hand, and requested that a clergyman might be sent for.

On his arrival she joined fervently in the pious office, frequently mentioning her ingratitude to her parents as what lay most heavy at her heart.  When she had performed the last solemn duty, and was preparing to lie down, a little bustle on the outside door occasioned Mrs. Beauchamp to open it, and enquire the cause.  A man in appearance about forty, presented himself, and asked for Mrs. Beauchamp.

“That is my name, Sir,” said she.

“Oh then, my dear Madam,” cried he, “tell me where I may find my poor, ruined, but repentant child.”

Mrs. Beauchamp was surprised and affected; she knew not what to say; she foresaw the agony this interview would occasion Mr. Temple, who had just arrived in search of his Charlotte, and yet was sensible that the pardon and blessing of her father would soften even the agonies of death to the daughter.

She hesitated.  “Tell me, Madam,” cried he wildly, “tell me, I beseech thee, does she live? shall I see my darling once again?  Perhaps she is in this house.  Lead, lead me to her, that I may bless her, and then lie down and die.”

The ardent manner in which he uttered these words occasioned him to raise his voice.  It caught the ear of Charlotte:  she knew the beloved sound:  and uttering a loud shriek, she sprang forward as Mr. Temple entered the room.  “My adored father.”  “My long lost child.”  Nature could support no more, and they both sunk lifeless into the arms of the attendants.

Charlotte was again put into bed, and a few moments restored Mr. Temple:  but to describe the agony of his sufferings is past the power of any one, who, though they may readily conceive, cannot delineate the dreadful scene.  Every eye gave testimony of what each heart felt—­but all were silent.