soon. It was a weak delay, but I had not learned the beauty of a perfect
self-forgetfulness; and though I clung to my purpose steadfastly, my
heart still cherished a desperate hope that I might be spared this loss.

In the midst of this secret conflict, there came a letter from old Adam
Lyndsay, asking to see his daughter's child; for life was waning slowly,
and he desired to forgive, as he hoped to be forgiven when the last hour
came. The letter was to me, and, as I read it, I saw a way where-by I
might be spared the hard task of telling Effie she was to be free. I
feared my new-found strength would desert me, and my courage fail, when,
looking on the woman who was dearer to me than my life, I tried to give
her back the liberty whose worth she had learned to know.

Effie should go, and I would write the words I dared not speak. She
would be in her mother's home, free to show her joy at her release, and
smile upon the lover she had banished.

I went to tell her; for it was I who sought her now, who watched for her
coming and sighed at her departing steps,--I who waited for her smile
and followed her with wistful eyes. The child's slighted affection was
atoned for now by my unseen devotion to the woman.

I gave the letter, and she read it silently.

"Will you go, love?" I asked, as she folded it.

"Yes,--the old man has no one to care for him but me, and it is so
beautiful to be loved."

A sudden smile touched her lips, and a soft dew shone in the shadowy