by partly concealing,
heightened every beauty; the zephyrs whispered softly through the trees,
which now began to shed their leafy honours; a solemn silence reigned:
and to a happy mind an evening such as this would give serenity, and
calm, unruffled pleasure; but to Montraville, while it soothed
the turbulence of his passions, it brought increase of melancholy
reflections. Julia was leaning on his arm: he took her hand in his, and
pressing it tenderly, sighed deeply, but continued silent. Julia was
embarrassed; she wished to break a silence so unaccountable, but was
unable; she loved Montraville, she saw he was unhappy, and wished to
know the cause of his uneasiness, but that innate modesty, which nature
has implanted in the female breast, prevented her enquiring. "I am bad
company, Miss Franklin," said he, at last recollecting himself; "but
I have met with something to-day that has greatly distressed me, and I
cannot shake off the disagreeable impression it has made on my mind."

"I am sorry," she replied, "that you have any cause of inquietude. I am
sure if you were as happy as you deserve, and as all your friends wish
you--" She hesitated. "And might I," replied he with some animation,
"presume to rank the amiable Julia in that number?"

"Certainly," said she, "the service you have rendered me, the knowledge
of your worth, all combine to make me esteem you."

"Esteem, my lovely Julia," said he passionately, "is but a poor cold
word. I would if I dared, if I thought I merited your attention--but
no, I must not--honour forbids. I am beneath your notice, Julia, I am
miserable and cannot hope to be otherwise." "Alas!" said Julia, "I pity
you."

"Oh thou condescending charmer," said he, "how that sweet word cheers my
sad heart. Indeed if you knew all, you would pity; but at the same time
I fear you would despise me."

Just then they were again joined by Mr. Franklin and Belcour. It had
interrupted an interesting discourse. They found it impossible to
converse on indifferent subjects, and proceeded home in silence. At
Mr. Franklin's door Montraville again pressed Julia's hand, and faintly
articulating "good night," retired to his lodgings dispirited and
wretched, from a consciousness that he deserved not the affection, with
which he plainly saw he was honoured.

CHAPTER XXV.

RECEPTION OF A LETTER.

"AND where now is our poor Charlotte?" said Mr. Temple one evening, as
the cold blasts of autumn whistled ru