presence of the benevolent Mrs. Beauchamp.

"If she were here," she would cry, "she would certainly comfort me, and
sooth the distraction of my soul."

She was sitting one afternoon, wrapped in these melancholy reflexions,
when she was interrupted by the entrance of Belcour. Great as the
alteration was which incessant sorrow had made on her person, she was
still interesting, still charming; and the unhallowed flame, which had
urged Belcour to plant dissension between her and Montraville, still
raged in his bosom: he was determined, if possible, to make her his
mistress; nay, he had even conceived the diabolical scheme of taking her
to New-York, and making her appear in every public place where it was
likely she should meet Montraville, that he might be a witness to his
unmanly triumph.

When he entered the room where Charlotte was sitting, he assumed
the look of tender, consolatory friendship. "And how does my lovely
Charlotte?" said he, taking her hand: "I fear you are not so well as I
could wish."

"I am not well, Mr. Belcour," said she, "very far from it; but the pains
and infirmities of the body I could easily bear, nay, submit to them
with patience, were they not aggravated by the most insupportable
anguish of my mind."

"You are not happy, Charlotte," said he, with a look of well-dissembled
sorrow.

"Alas!" replied she mournfully, shaking her head, "how can I be happy,