“I was sent to you for the purpose, as I suppose, of having my fortune told,” answered Florence.
“There is some mistake,” replied Effie, a half smile flitting over her pale face, “I am not a fortune-teller.”
“But I thought—I understood—that is—Mr. Crayford told me you were. Did I not meet you one day in Chestnut street?” asked Florence.
A faint color tinged the cheek of Effie, and her beautiful eyes drooped low as she answered,
“You did—too well do I remember it—you looking so happy, and I so sad! Yes, I saw you point me out to Belmont.”
“Belmont! I know no such person,” said Florence, “it was Mr. Crayford who was with me—it was Mr. Crayford who told me you were a fortune-teller.”
“Did he—did he tell you so?” said Effie, bursting into tears, “for, alas! young lady, it was Belmont—it was my husband you were walking with!”
“Your husband!” cried Florence, aghast.
“Yes, my husband. Dear young lady, think not I am mistaken—would that I were! I saw those eyes, so full of love, fixed on your blushing face—heard the soft tones of his voice as he bent low to address you. Yes, I saw all—heard all; and then, ah then!” cried Effie, with a shudder, and raising her tearful eyes to heaven, “what a look he cast upon me! But did he—did Belmont send you to me?” she eagerly demanded.
“No, he did not—it was another who directed me here. And now, my poor girl,” said Florence, drawing her chair close to Effie, and kindly taking her hand, “I see that you have been cruelly treated—will you then tell me your history—will you tell me of Crayford, or Belmont, for I now see they are one and the same.”