We will take a brief retrospect of the last two years in the life of Crayford.

Upon a pleasant summer evening, two gentlemen, mounted on fine, spirited steeds, came gayly cantering down the gentle slope of a hill, and across the rustic bridge which formed the entrance to a small village in the interior of Pennsylvania, just as a party of merry milk-maids were returning the same way from the green pastures beyond. The road, or rather lane, was here quite narrow, and observing the rapid approach of the equestrians, the girls hastily stepping aside into the deep grass, stood still for them to pass by. Instead of doing so, however, they slackened their pace, and one of them reining in his steed, gazed impertinently into the blushing faces of the village girls.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed, in a low voice to his companion, “what a pair of eyes that little witch has in the blue petticoat—and what a shape! look at her, Hastings.”

The damsel thus pointed out could not have been more than sixteen. In face and form a perfect Hebe, with a most superb pair of laughing black eyes, shaded by long curling lashes. Her little sun-bonnet was thrown off, but rested loosely upon her shoulders; her hair, which was as black and brilliant as her eyes, was cut short to her beautiful neck, and clustered in tight ringlets over her finely formed head, upon the top of which sat her pail of foaming milk. With one hand she held it lightly poised, while the other rested upon her hip, in an attitude most graceful and picturesque. Her petticoat was of dark-blue bombazet, set off by a white muslin short-gown reaching half way to the knees, where it was finished with a narrow frilling—a dress still in vogue among the farmers’ daughters both in Pennsylvania and New England—and a very pretty dress it is, too. Her little feet were bare, hiding themselves modestly in the tall grass.

“The girl is an angel—a perfect divinity!” replied Hastings, after a rude stare at the young maid, “What a sensation she would make—eh, Crayford!”

“I say, Hastings,” added the other, with a devilish leer, “it will be worth our while to stay here a day or two—what say you?”

To this Hastings returned a significant wink, which was responded to by the other in the same way.

During these remarks they had rode slowly on, but now suddenly wheeling his horse, Crayford once more approached the little group, and lifting his hat, bowed most gracefully as he said,

“Can you tell me, fair maidens, where my friend and myself may be so fortunate as to find a night’s lodging? We are somewhat fatigued with a long day’s ride, and would fain rest our weary limbs, as also our jaded steeds. Can you direct us, then, to some public house in your village?”

A sprightly blue-eyed girl, delighted to be of service to the polite stranger, stepped quickly forward, and said, while her cheeks grew redder and redder, and her eyes rounded with every word:

“O, yes, sir, there is a good tavern at the other end of the village, and here is Effie Day, she lives there, you know, for it is her grandfather who keeps the house; here, Effie, you will show the gentleman the way, wont you Effie?”

“By all the saints, how lucky!” whispered Crayford, to his friend—Effie proving to be no other than the identical maiden who had so charmed him.

Springing from his horse, and throwing the reins to Hastings with a meaning glance, Crayford lifted the pail from the head of the blushing girl, and begged the privilege of assisting her with her burden, while she acted as his guide to the inn. The girls all laughed merrily at this, but Effie, blushing still deeper, drew her sun-bonnet closely over her face, and tripped lightly on before him, so fleetly, too, whether from bashfulness or mischief, that her gallant could scarcely keep pace with her twinkling feet. On reaching the inn, his fair guide suddenly disappeared, leaving Crayford to dispose of the milk-pail as he could, to the no small delight of Hastings, who highly enjoyed the evident discomfiture of his friend.

The old landlord welcomed the strangers heartily, and gave them the best rooms his house could boast, and soon placed before them an excellent supper. But what gave it its true zest was the attendance of the pretty milk-maid—and a more lovely cup-bearer never served the gods.

Poor Effie Day was but an infant when both her parents were taken from her by death, and no other home had she ever known than the roof of her kind old grandfather. With a tenderness far exceeding that which they had felt for their own children did her grandparents regard her, and in pity for her orphan state, indulged her in every wish which it was in their power to grant. As she grew up her beauty and vivacity was their pride, and no theme could sooner reach their hearts than the praises of their darling Effie. She was brought up in all the simplicity of country life; a circuit of ten miles the boundary of her little world, and from books her knowledge was scarcely more. Yet the birds which sang at her window, or the lambs with whom she skipped in the meadows, were not more gay or happy than was the old inn-keeper’s bright darling child, when like the serpent in Paradise, Crayford came. He found the honest old couple and the artless Effie of the very sort whom his cunning could most easily dupe, and with skill which would not have disgraced a demon, set about his fiendish work—for most cogent reasons of his own disguising his name under that of Belmont, while his worthy coadjutor assumed that of Jervis.

Feigning to be charmed with the locality of this little town, they made known their intention of passing several weeks in its vicinity. But why enter into the details of a plot such as should call down the avenging bolt of heaven. Suffice it, alas! to say, that sin and villainy triumphed, and as pure a child as ever the finger of God rested upon, was enticed from her home, from her poor old doting grandparents.

Under a solemn promise of marriage the unfortunate Effie eloped with her base betrayer.

Upon reaching Philadelphia, the form of marriage was gone through with by a convenient priest, and the sacrifice of innocence completed. For some months, but for the memory of the aged couple, in the silent shades of her native valley, she was as happy as a young confiding wife could be in the love, nay, adoration of her husband. The lodgings Crayford rented were in an obscure part of the city, and furnished most meagerly for the taste of one accustomed to fashionable display, yet Effie, who had never seen any thing more grand than the parson’s parlor at home, thought even a queen could not be more sumptuously lodged, and she was very sure could not be more happy.

Poor, poor Effie!

This devotion on the part of Crayford continued while his humor lasted—no longer; nor did one gleam of pity for the unfortunate girl lead him to wear the mask only as long as suited his own pleasure. The heart sickens to dwell upon the anguish of poor Effie, thus abandoned by one for whom she had sacrificed all—one so friendless, so forlorn, so young and so beautiful.

The woman with whom she lodged allowed her to remain under her roof until she had stripped her of the little she possessed—of her clothing, and the few ornaments Crayford had given her; then, when no more was to be gained, she thrust her forth into the streets to die, or live by a fate worse than death!

Alas! that in a world so fair as this, such things really are, needing no aid from fancy to portray their atrociousness.

All day did the poor girl wander through the busy crowd, gazing piteously into the faces of the multitude, and if by chance one more kindly than others bent an eye upon her, she would ask them for Belmont. But no one could tell her aught. And then night came—dark, desolate night. On, from street to street passed the unfortunate, shrinking from the rude stare, and still ruder speech of brutes calling themselves men; no one offering a shelter to the houseless wanderer, and even her own sex meeting her appeals with coarse, unfeeling laughter.

Blame her not, that suddenly yielding to the despair of her young heart, she sought in death relief.

It was near the hour of midnight when she found herself upon one of the wharves. Dark and cold stretched the river before her; dark and cold was to her the world she was leaving. For a moment she paused, and gazed despairingly around her; tears trickled down her pallid cheeks, for she felt she was young to die; and she wept still more when she thought upon her aged grandparents, who would never know her sad fate. Then arose before her, floating as it were upon the heaving mass of waters, on which her eyes were fixed, that peaceful valley, with the green hills sweeping around it, and the rustic dwellings of her playmates and friends looking out upon her beseechingly from their pleasant shades as she stood there in her loneliness; and as a far-off symphony of sweet sounds came floating by, the glad voices which Nature had sang to her in childhood. Poor Effie Day! what pleasant memories were crowded into those few brief moments.

“Belmont!” she shrieked, suddenly starting from that far-off dream, “Belmont, may God forgive you the deed I am about to do!”

Then falling on her knees, she clasped her trembling hands, murmuring a prayer for pardon and mercy. Now casting one long, shuddering look upon the cold, dark river, she was about to plunge therein, when a strong arm was thrown around her, and she was forcibly drawn back several feet from the verge on which she had stood poised.

“Wretched girl, what would you do!” said a voice in her ear.

She heard no more, for a faintness came over her, and but for the arm still around her, she would have fallen insensible to the ground. When she recovered, she found herself upon a bed in a small, neat apartment. A woman of mild countenance was leaning over her, chafing her hands and temples, and at the foot of the bed stood a gentleman dressed in deep mourning, with his full, dark eyes fixed upon her with pity and kindness.

“Poor child!” she heard the woman say, just as she opened her eyes; “I’ll warrant some of those gay gallants have broken her heart! Bless her, she is coming to—there, there darling, how does thee feel now?”

But ere poor Effie could reply, the gentleman placed his finger on his lips, as if to caution her from speaking, then preparing some soothing anodyne, he bade the woman administer it as quickly as possible, and promising to be back at an early hour in the morning, took leave.

When the morning came, however, the unfortunate girl was raving in all the delirium of fever, which for weeks baffled medical skill. Youth at length triumphed over disease, and she was once more able to leave her bed. During this time she had made known at intervals, her sad history to the good woman of the house, and the benevolent stranger who had snatched her from a watery grave.

Every where the latter sought to discover the perfidious Belmont, and on pursuing his inquiries for the grandparents of the wretched girl, he learned that grief at the desertion of their child, had broken the old people’s hearts; first the father, then the mother, had been borne to their long homes. A distant relative had seized upon the little homestead, and already a flaunting sign usurped the head of good old Penn, which for more than half a century had smiled benignly down upon travelers.

Effie begged to remain with Mrs. Wing, who kept a small thread and needle store in —— Lane, near the river; and the kind woman felt so much pity for her lonely, unprotected situation, that she readily granted her request. She was soon able to assist in the labors of the shop, and to make herself in many ways useful. Of the kind stranger she saw but little, but from Mrs. Wing she learned that he had generously defrayed all the expenses of her illness. He came but seldom, but when he did, he spoke to her so kindly, encouraged her with so much gentleness, soothing her sorrows, and leading her mind to that Higher source where alone she might look for comfort, that Effie regarded him in the light of a superior being.

Thus months rolled on, and no tidings of Belmont reached Effie. One morning, as she stood arranging a few fancy articles upon the broad window-seat in a manner which might display their beauty to the best advantage, she threw up the sash for a moment to inhale the fine breeze which came sweeping up from the river. The day was lovely. The gentle undulating surface of the Delaware, cleft by a hundred flashing oars, with the keels of many noble vessels buried in her sparkling tide, their white sails swelling to the breeze, stretched before her in beauty, while above, cloudless and serene was the blue vault of heaven.

A pleasure yacht had just neared the wharf, and from it a party of gentlemen sprung to land, and with rather boisterous mirth, crossed the street directly opposite where Effie still stood at the window. Suddenly her eyes rested upon one of that gay group, and for a moment it seemed as if breath and motion were suspended in the intensity of her gaze. She could not be mistaken—she knew she was not—it was Belmont, her husband; and scarcely knowing what she did, she rushed to the door, and with a wild scream of joy, threw herself upon the breast of Crayford.

“Ho, ho, Crayford, you are in luck, my boy!” shouted one of the party; “by Jove she’s an angel!”

Overwhelmed with confusion, and taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of one whom he had hoped never to see more, Crayford for half a minute stood irresolute, then struggling to disengage himself from her embrace, he exclaimed angrily,

“Off, woman—none of your tricks with me; off, I say!”

Casting roughly aside those tender arms which clung to him so despairingly, poor Effie would have fallen to the ground but for another of the party, who, seizing her just as she was sinking, cried with mock pathos,

“Here, pretty one, the fellow is a monster; here, I will take care of you—come, kiss me!”

But Effie sprung from his arms, and clasping the knees of Crayford as she saw the heartless wretch moving on,

“Belmont, my husband!” she cried, in tones of piercing anguish, “do not, O, do not leave me again; no, you will not be so cruel—take me with you!”

“That’s cool, by heavens!—ha! ha! ha!” shouted Crayford, with infernal daring, “you are crazy, child! I am not your Belmont; perhaps this is he—or this,” pointing from one to the other of his companions.

The look of wo with which the poor girl received this cruel speech, did not escape their notice, and, hardened as they were, they were moved to pity, and the rude jests died on their lips.

Effie rose from her knees, and tottering a step forward, placed her trembling hand upon the outstretched arm of Crayford. With an oath he spurned her from him, when in his path there suddenly arose one whose cold, searching glance, struck terror to his guilty soul.

“Crayford, I know you!” exclaimed the stranger. “This, then, is your infernal work; ay, tremble, thou base destroyer of innocence. Away, I say, ere I am tempted to do a deed shall shame my manhood!”

Livid with rage, Crayford drew a dirk from his bosom, and rushed suddenly upon the stranger; but in an instant it was wrenched from his hand, then seizing the wretch by the collar, as he would a dog, he hurled him off the curb-stone, and with such force, as sent him half across the street, and then lifting tenderly the form of the fainting girl in his arms, bore her into the house.

The reader will, of course, infer that Crayford and the stranger had met before. They had; nor was this the first dark deed to which the latter knew Crayford might lay claim.

To draw our long digression to a close, suffice it to say, that it was the unfortunate Effie Day whom Florence had met while walking with Crayford, and that the gentleman whom she had pointed out to him in the picture gallery, was no other than the stranger of whom we have just spoken, and whose appearance had so perceptibly agitated her companion.

——