“_Belmont!_ I know no such person,” said Florence, “it was Mr. Crayford who was with me—it was Mr. Crayford who told me you were a fortune-teller.”
“Did he—did he tell you so?” said Effie, bursting into tears, “for, alas! young lady, it was Belmont—it was my husband you were walking with!”
“_Your husband!_” cried Florence, aghast.
“Yes, my husband. Dear young lady, think not I am mistaken—would that I were! I saw those eyes, so full of love, fixed on your blushing face—heard the soft tones of his voice as he bent low to address you. Yes, I saw all—heard all; and then, ah then!” cried Effie, with a shudder, and raising her tearful eyes to heaven, “what a look he cast upon _me_! But did he—did Belmont send you to me?” she eagerly demanded.
“No, he did not—it was another who directed me here. And now, my poor girl,” said Florence, drawing her chair close to Effie, and kindly taking her hand, “I see that you have been cruelly treated—will you then tell me your history—will you tell me of Crayford, or Belmont, for I now see they are one and the same.”
“No, I do not love him, nor is it probable we shall ever meet again,” replied Florence.
“But he has sought your love—and yet you love him not—how strange! _I love him!_ O, would to God I did not!” and here the poor girl sobbed aloud, while Florence, overcome by emotion, threw her arms around the unfortunate, and resting her head on her bosom, mingled tears with hers.
When both were a little more calm, Florence again urged her to reveal her sorrows, which Effie did in language so simple and earnest as carried conviction to the mind of her listener, who shuddered as the fearful abyss in which she had been so nearly lost, thus opened before her.
“And do you know the name of the person who has been so kind to you?” asked Florence, referring to the preserver of Effie.
“I know not,” answered Effie, “neither does Mrs. Wing, but to me, dear young lady, he has been an angel of goodness!”
“Strange!” thought Florence, “this benevolent stranger can surely be no other than my unknown friend. He is, then, all I first imagined him—kind, noble, disinterested—and yet I have doubted him; how am I reproved! but for him, my own fate might, perhaps, have resembled that of the unfortunate girl before me!”