Once on the street, Effingston strode without pause in the direction of Elinor's house. What a difference in his feelings now, contrasted with what they had been when he had traversed that way before. He had outlined his course of action,--to simply tell her what his father had seen, and demand an explanation. If she were guilty, even his love and her woman's wit could not, he thought, hide the fact from his eyes; and if it all were true and he had been duped, what then? He prayed that pride would come to his aid and steel his nerves, and prompt his tongue to speak. With these thoughts in his mind, and looking neither to the right nor left, he hurried on his way to her dwelling. How changed each familiar object seemed to him. As he knocked at the door and listened, a footstep sounded in the hall. Ah, how many times had his heart leaped at the same sound. The door opened, and she who was all the world to him stood on the threshold;--she whom he must soon accuse of hideous duplicity. How very beautiful she looked. On seeing Effingston, Elinor uttered a low, startled cry. He noted the action, for love, when coupled with suspicion (and the two can live together) is not blind, but terribly vigilant. "Elinor, I must speak with thee, and alone," he exclaimed. The girl regarded him with a half frightened look. She had been all day engaged in a bitter fight with self, and knew not how to tell him they must part forever. Now he stood before her. She realized to some extent what the agony of the separation which must soon come would be to her, and knowing full well the depth of his love, measured his sufferings by her own. Wild thoughts had passed through her mind of doing something which would turn that love to hate, and she felt she could better bear that than know he lived and suffered. But now as she looked upon him both will and fortitude fast weakened. Again she was the simple loving woman. "Wilt thou enter?" she asked in a constrained voice, scarce knowing what she said. He crossed the threshold and passed into the little room which held for him the most tender recollections. "Elinor, I have come----" he began; then, gazing at the beautiful face before him, he advanced toward her with outstretched arms--all resolution gone; "O my darling, I have wronged thee--thou canst tell, I know, and explain all." She shrank from his touch, fearing lest her little firmness should take flight. "Why dost thou shrink from me?" cried he, swept by a sudden fear which made his lips dry and his cheeks burn. "O my God, can it then be thou dost know the purport of my question?" "I know not what thou meanest," she stammered, astonished at his words, even amidst her sufferings; "if thou hast aught to ask, pray say on."