Mrs. Temple beginning to be a little more composed, but still imagining
her child was dead, her husband, gently taking her hand, cried--"You are
mistaken, my love. Charlotte is not dead."

"Then she is very ill, else why did she not come? But I will go to her:
the chaise is still at the door: let me go instantly to the dear girl.
If I was ill, she would fly to attend me, to alleviate my sufferings,
and cheer me with her love."

"Be calm, my dearest Lucy, and I will tell you all," said Mr. Temple.
"You must not go, indeed you must not; it will be of no use."

"Temple," said she, assuming a look of firmness and composure, "tell
me the truth I beseech you. I cannot bear this dreadful suspense. What
misfortune has befallen my child? Let me know the worst, and I will
endeavour to bear it as I ought."

"Lucy," replied Mr. Temple, "imagine your daughter alive, and in no
danger of death: what misfortune would you then dread?"

"There is one misfortune which is worse than death. But I know my child
too well to suspect--"

"Be not too confident, Lucy."

"Oh heavens!" said she, "what horrid images do you start: is it possible
she should forget--"

"She has forgot us all, my love; she has preferred the love of a
stranger to the affectionate protection of her friends.