She felt she had gone too far to recede, and that it had now become her duty to probe this enigma thoroughly. Her confidence in Crayford was too much impaired for her to receive him again into her presence so long as such doubts hung around his character. “I will obey the instructions of this unknown Mentor,” said she, “it cannot be that he is false; no, to this Mrs. Belmont, then, will I go, and go alone.” Ordering a carriage, therefore, and directing the driver to No. 7 —— Lane, she set forth upon an errand which, for a young, unprotected female, was certainly rather hazardous. Of its locality she had no knowledge; and when she found herself gradually approaching the opposite side of the city from her own residence, passing through narrow streets, and at every turning drawing nearer to the river, she would have felt more apprehension but for the words of the unknown: “Fear not,” urged the note, “one will be near you who will protect you with his life.” These words reassured her, for she had so long accustomed herself to regard him in the light of her protector and friend, that even now, when her doubts almost distracted her, she still gave herself up to the pleasing thought that he was near, and no danger could befall her. “This is No. 7 —— Lane,” said the coachman, reining in his horses before the thread and needle store of Mrs. Wing, “whom shall I ask for?” “Never mind, I will go in myself,” answered Florence. Mrs. Wing was sitting in a little back room, but seeing a lady enter the shop, arose and came forward to the counter. “Is there a Mrs. Belmont lodges here?” inquired Florence. “There is a young woman of that name in my employ, friend—would thee like to see her? If thee does, thee can go to her room—she has been very ill.” Florence bowing assent, the good woman led the way up a narrow staircase, and opened the door of a neat little chamber, saying, as she motioned Florence to go in, “Here is a young woman to see thee, Effie,” then immediately withdrew. Near the bed, in a large easy-chair, propped up by pillows, sat poor Effie Day. Not a tinge of the rose, once blooming so freshly there, could be traced on that pale cheek, and of the same marble hue were her lips and brow. These, contrasted by her jet-black hair, and eyes so large and brilliant, imparted a strange ghastliness to her appearance. At the first glance Florence recognized her as the young woman whom Crayford had pointed out to her as a fortune-teller. This at once opened a new channel for thought, and supposing, therefore, that she had been directed thither for the purpose of consulting her art, she said, half timidly approaching her, “Can you tell my fortune for me?” Poor Effie, too, had recognized the lovely girl whom she had seen walking with him she still believed to be her husband, and looking up with a sad earnestness of expression, made answer,