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.”

The servant bowed, and heavily returned with this chilling message to Charlotte.

“Surely,” said she, “Mrs. Crayton has not read my letter. Go, my good friend, pray go back to her; tell her it is Charlotte Temple who requests beneath her hospitable roof to find shelter from the inclemency of the season.”

“Prithee, don't plague me, man,” cried Mrs. Crayton impatiently, as the servant advanced something in behalf of the unhappy girl. “I tell you I don't know her.”

“Not know me,” cried Charlotte, rushing into the room, (for she had followed the man up stairs) “not know me, not remember the ruined Charlotte Temple, who, but for you, perhaps might still have been innocent, still have been happy. Oh! La Rue, this is beyond every thing I could have believed possible.”

“Upon my honour, Miss,” replied the unfeeling woman with the utmost effrontery, “this is a most unaccountable address: it is beyond my comprehension. John,” continued she, turning to the servant, “the young woman is certainly out of her senses: do pray take her away, she terrifies me to death.”

“Oh God,” cried Charlotte, clasping her hands in an agony, “this is too much; what will become of me? but I will not leave you; they shall not tear me from you; here on my knees I conjure you to save me from perishing in the streets; if you really have forgot me, oh for charity's sweet sake this night let me be sheltered from the winter's piercing cold.” The kneeling figure of Charlotte in her affecting situation might have moved the heart of a stoic to compassion; but Mrs. Crayton remained inflexible. In vain did Charlotte recount the time they had known each other at Chichester, in vain mention their being in the same ship, in vain were the names of Montraville and Belcour mentioned. Mrs. Crayton could only say she was sorry for her imprudence, but could not think of having her own reputation endangered by encouraging a woman of that kind in her own house, besides she did not know what trouble and expense she might bring upon her husband by giving shelter to a woman in her situation.

“I can at least die here,” said Charlotte, “I feel I cannot long survive this dreadful conflict. Father of mercy, here let me finish my existence.” Her agonizing sensations overpowered her, and she fell senseless on the floor.

“Take her away,” said Mrs. Crayton, “she will really frighten me into hysterics; take her away I say this instant.”

“And where must I take the poor creature?” said the servant with a voice and look of compassion.

“Any where,” cried she hastily, “only don't let me ever see her again. I declare she has flurried me so I shan't be myself again this fortnight.”

John, assisted by his fellow-servant, raised and carried her down stairs. “Poor soul,” said he, “you shall not lay in the street this night. I have a bed and a poor little hovel, where my wife and her little ones rest them, but they shall watch to night, and you shall be sheltered from danger.” They placed her in a chair; and the benevolent man, assisted by one of his comrades, carried her to the place where his wife and children lived. A surgeon was sent for: he bled her, she gave signs of returning life, and before the dawn gave birth to a female infant. After this event she lay for some hours in a kind of stupor; and if at any time she spoke, it was with a quickness and incoherence that plainly evinced the total deprivation of her reason.