“Poor, unhappy child!” cried Florence, taking her to her bosom, and tenderly soothing her, “you have been basely, cruelly dealt with! Heavens! I shudder when I think what my fate might have been but for this discovery!” She remained some hours with the wretched girl, nor left her until she had become more tranquil, when, with the assurance that she would see her again in a very few days, she took an affectionate leave of poor Effie Day, and returned home. I will state here that the mysterious friend of Florence May knew nothing of Crayford’s visit to the victim of his wiles. He merely intended that from the lips of Effie, she might learn his baseness. Her meeting with Crayford, therefore, was one of those singular coincidences which often startle even the most skeptical. Florence returned home with feelings difficult to analyze. The interest with which the unknown had from the first inspired her, now suddenly acquired new strength. She had proved him to be the friend he professed, while his kindness to the unfortunate Effie (for she doubted not his individuality) was another proof of his excellence, showing that his goodness of heart did not confine itself alone to her welfare, which might be attributable, perhaps, to his avowed attachment, but could find its way to succor where’er distress or wretchedness dwelt. She felt this love and kindness merited return—and her heart timidly awarded it. Selecting a beautiful emerald ring from her jewels, she enclosed it with the following note: “Generous, noble friend, I have proved your assertions true. O, pardon my doubts! You have said you love me; will you then deem it bold in me if I acknowledge the interest with which you have inspired me. Yet you say we may never meet; why is this? Accept the enclosed, and with it the gratitude of Florence.” “You then acknowledge an interest in me,” wrote the unknown, in reply. “Thanks, a thousand thanks. The time approaches when the barrier now existing may be removed, and then I may hope to win your love! Where, now, are those despairing thoughts which crushed me with their weight of wo; one kind word from you, and as the soft moonbeams dispel the blackness of night, they have fled, and around me is the light of joy—hope—happiness.” CHAPTER VI. Ten months a widow—was there ever such folly! To be sure, much might be done in two more, if one earnestly set about it—for Florence had a pair of eyes, and a tongue might “call an angel down.” Yet to those about her, she seemed more reckless of her fate than ever—going out but seldom, and scarcely allowing any gentleman to approach her presence.