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