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,
“Your fortune! O, my beautiful young lady, may it never be so wretched as mine!” Then noticing the evident perturbation of Florence’s manner, she continued, “Can I serve you in any way?”