"Soon,--very soon,--to-morrow;--let me go to-morrow, Sir. I long to be
away!" she cried, some swift emotion banishing the calmness of her usual
manner, as she rose, with eager eyes and a gesture full of longing.

"You shall go, Effie," was all I could say; and with no word of thanks,
she hastened away, leaving me so calm without, so desolate within.

The same eagerness possessed her all that day; and the next she went
away, clinging to me at the last as she had clung that night upon the
river-bank, as if her grateful heart reproached her for the joy she felt
at leaving my unhappy home.

A few days passed, bringing me the comfort of a few sweet lines from
Effie, signed "Your child." That sight reminded me, that, if I would do
an honest deed, it should be generously done. I read again the little
missive she had sent, and then I wrote the letter which might be my
last;--with no hint of my love, beyond the expression of sincerest
regard and never-ceasing interest in her happiness; no hint of Alfred
Vaughan; for I would not wound her pride, nor let her dream that any eye
had seen the passion she so silently surrendered, with no reproach to
me and no shadow on the name I had given into her keeping. Heaven knows
what it cost me, and Heaven, through the suffering of that hour, granted
me an humbler spirit and a better life.

It went, and I waited for my fate as one might wait for pardon or for
doom. It came at length,--a short, sad letter, full of meek obedience to
my will, of penitence for faults I never knew, and grateful prayers for
my peace.