“You’re a fool!” exclaimed Crayford, brutally. “Why I thought you would have learned better by this time; but since you have not, why you must not be in my way, that’s all. Now listen to me; you must go out of the city—and look you, on condition that you will never come back again, I will give you a thousand dollars; come, that’s generous, now—most men would let you go to the —— before they would do as much for you. The fact is, child, I am going to be married, and to a beautiful, rich lady.” “_Married!_” shrieked Effie, starting to her feet, and catching his arm, “married—am I not your wife?” “Ha! ha! ha!—come, that’s a good one; not exactly, child, you are only my wife, _pour passer le temps_, as the French say. No, that was all a hoax—you are free, and with a thousand dollars to buy you a husband! Now is not that better?” said Crayford, chucking her under the chin. Effie did not reply. It needed not—those eyes, more eloquent than words, fastened upon his guilty countenance, told plainly a villain’s work of wo wrought in her young, trusting heart. Crayford, hardened as he was, quailed under their reproach. At length she spoke, but there was an unnatural calmness in her voice, “Who is the lady you will marry?” she said. “Well, I will tell you—and, by the way, you came near ruining my prospects there. She saw you in Chestnut street one day, as we were walking, and you looked so —— queer at me, that, faith, I were put to my trumps, and mumbled over something about your being a crazy fortune-teller—was not that well done?” “It _was_ well done,” answered Effie, in the same tone; “but her name—tell me her name.” “Her name is May—a young, pretty widow; though, on my soul, Effie—why I declare, now I look at you, you are almost as handsome as ever; if it was not for her money, she might look further for a husband. But come, I am in a hurry; I want you to sign this paper, pledging yourself to leave the city never to return, upon which condition I also pledge myself to give you a thousand dollars—will you sign it?” “I will,” answered Effie; “but I require a witness.” “A witness—nonsense! well, bring up the old woman, then.” “It is not necessary—here is one,” said Effie, advancing with a firm step to the inner door, and throwing it wide. “Severe in youthful beauty,” Florence came forth. Had a thunderbolt suddenly fallen from heaven, Crayford could not have been more paralyzed. Florence paused upon the threshold. “Go!” said she, waving her hand, “go, Mr. Crayford, this innocent girl is under my protection. I have heard all—I know all—begone, sir!” And, incapable of uttering one word, the guilty wretch, awed by the majesty of virtue, stole away as a fiend from the presence of an angel. The over-tasked firmness of poor Effie now gave way; and piteous it was to witness the agony of her grief and shame.