She stopped, not because she had no more to say, but because she lost the control of her voice and could do nothing but sob--drawing her breath convulsively, like a child that has wept its passion out, yet has not recovered the spasmodic grip upon its throat. Phyllis and Doris looked at her with eyes more and more astonished and critical. They spoke to each other, not to her. “She means it, do you know, Dor!” “It is like a melodrama, Phyll--Goodness, look at her! If we should ever go on the stage----!” Effie heard the murmur of their voices, and turned her eyes from one to another: but her head was light with the fumes of her own passion, which had suddenly flared so high; and though she looked from one to another, instinctively, she did not understand what they said. “And did you come to tell us this, so late, and all alone, you poor little Effie? And how did you manage to get away? and how are you to get back?” “Of course,” said Doris, “we must send her back. Don’t ask so many silly questions, Phyll.” “I am not going back,” said Effie. “They would stop me if they knew. Oh, will you send me to the train? for it is very dark and very wet, and I’m frightened, it’s all so lonely. I never meant to trouble anybody. But your father will be going too, and I would just sit in a corner and never say a word. Oh, will you ask him to let me go with him to the train?” “What does she mean about papa? The train! there is no one going to the train. Do you mean to say that you--to-night--oh, you know you must be dreaming; nothing like this is possible, Effie! You must go home, child, and go to bed----” “To bed! and let him think that I’ve forsaken him--to let him get up to-morrow morning and hear that Effie, because he is poor, has gone back from her word? Oh! no, no, I cannot do it. If you will not send me, I will just walk as I meant to do! I was frightened,” said Effie, with her piteous little sob. “And then if your father is going--But it does not matter after all, I will just walk as I meant to do: and if you don’t care, that was my mistake in coming--I will just say good-night.” She turned away with a childlike dignity, yet with a tremor she could not subdue. She was not afraid to go out into the world, to carry the sacrifice of her young existence to the man who loved her, whom she would not forsake in his trouble: but she was frightened for the dark road, the loneliness of the night--she was frightened, but yet she was ready to do it. She turned away with a wave of her hand. Both of the girls, however, were roused by this time. Doris rose from her sofa, and Phyllis seized Effie, half coaxingly, half violently, by the arm. “Effie! goodness,” she cried, “just think for a moment. You musn’t do this--what could Fred do with you? He would be frightened out of his senses. You would put him in such a predicament. What _would_ he do?”