_Bev._ No more of this--You wring my heart.

_Char._ Would that the misery were all your own! But innocence must
suffer. Unthinking rioter! whose home was heaven to him: an angel
dwelt there, and a little cherub, that crowned his days with
blessings--How has he lost this heaven, to league with devils!

_Bev._ Forbear, I say; reproaches come too late; they search, but
cure not. And for the fortune you demand, we'll talk to-morrow on't;
our tempers may be milder.

_Char._ Or if 'tis gone, why, farewel all. I claimed it for a
sister. She holds my heart in hers; and every pang She feels, tears
it in pieces--But I'll upbraid no more. What heaven permits, it may
ordain; and sorrow then is sinful. Yet that the husband! father!
brother! should be its instrument of vengeance!--'Tis grievous to
know that.

_Bev._ If you're my sister, spare the remembrance--It wounds too
deeply. To-morrow shall clear all; and when the worst is known, it
may be better than your fears. Comfort my wife; and for the pains of
absence, I'll make atonement. The world may yet go well with
us.

_Char._ See where she comes!--Look chearfully upon her. Affections,
such as hers, are prying; and lend those eyes that read the
soul.