stood motionless, and the man proceeded—­“I met her myself not a fortnight since one night all wet and cold in the streets; she went to Madam Crayton’s, but she would not take her in, and so the poor thing went raving mad.”  Montraville could bear no more; he struck his hands against his forehead with violence; and exclaiming “poor murdered Charlotte!” ran with precipitation towards the place where they were heaping the earth on her remains.  “Hold, hold, one moment,” said he.  “Close not the grave of the injured Charlotte Temple till I have taken vengeance on her murderer.”

“Rash young man,” said Mr. Temple, “who art thou that thus disturbest the last mournful rites of the dead, and rudely breakest in upon the grief of an afflicted father.”

“If thou art the father of Charlotte Temple,” said he, gazing at him with mingled horror and amazement—­“if thou art her father—­I am Montraville.”  Then falling on his knees, he continued—­“Here is my bosom.  I bare it to receive the stroke I merit.  Strike—­strike now, and save me from the misery of reflexion.”

“Alas!” said Mr. Temple, “if thou wert the seducer of my child, thy own reflexions be thy punishment.  I wrest not the power from the hand of omnipotence.  Look on that little heap of earth, there hast thou buried the only joy of a fond father.  Look at it often; and may thy heart feel such true sorrow as shall merit the mercy of heaven.”  He turned from him; and Montraville starting up from the ground, where he had thrown himself, and at that instant remembering the perfidy of Belcour, flew like lightning to his lodgings.  Belcour was intoxicated; Montraville impetuous:  they fought, and the sword of the latter entered the heart of his adversary.  He fell, and expired almost instantly.  Montraville had received a slight wound; and overcome with the agitation of his mind and loss of blood, was carried in a state of insensibility to his distracted wife.  A dangerous illness and obstinate delirium ensued, during which he raved incessantly for Charlotte:  but a strong constitution, and the tender assiduities of Julia, in time overcame the disorder.  He recovered; but to the end of his life was subject to severe fits of melancholy, and while he remained at New-York frequently retired to the church-yard, where he would weep over the grave, and regret the untimely fate of the lovely Charlotte Temple.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Conclusion.

Shortly after the interment of his daughter, Mr. Temple, with his dear little charge and her nurse, set forward for England.  It would be impossible to do justice to the meeting scene between him, his Lucy, and her aged father.  Every heart of sensibility can easily conceive their feelings.  After the first tumult of grief was subsided, Mrs. Temple gave up the chief of her time to her grand-child, and as she grew up and improved, began to almost fancy she again possessed her Charlotte.