id Effie. "Good-night now, George. I cannot
think nor counsel you at present; I feel too stunned. The blow you have
given me has come so unexpectedly, and it--it is so awful. But I'll get
up to see you off in the morning. Some thought may occur to me during
the night."

"Very well," said George. He walked slowly down the garden, and,
entering the house, went up to his own room. Effie did not go in for a
long time. She was alone now, all alone with the stars. She was standing
in the middle of the path. Often and often her father's steps had
trodden this path. He used to pace here when he was troubled about a
sick patient, when his anxiety about her mother arose to a feverish
pitch. Now his daughter stood on the same spot, while a whirl of
troubled thoughts passed through her brain. It had been her one
comfort, since that awful moment when Dorothy had told her that her
father was gone, to feel that George, in a measure at least, took that
father's place.

George had always been her favorite brother; they were very nearly the
same age--Effie was only two years younger than George; long ago George
had been good to the little sister--they had never quarreled, they had
grown up always the best and warmest of friends. Their love had been
true--as true as anything in all the world.

George had gone to London, and the first tiny spark of discontent had
visited Effie's heart. She would be so lonely without her brother. It
was so fine for him to go out into life, her own horizon seemed so
narrow. Then Dorothy came, and they had made friends, and Dorothy told
her what some women did with their lives.

Effie had been fired with a sudden desire to follow in Dorothy's steps;
then had followed the dark cloud which seemed to swallow up her wishes,
and all that was best out of her life. George, at least, remained. Dear,
brave, manly George! The brother who had passed out of childhood, and
entered man's estate.

Her father's last message had been to George--he had given her precious
mother into George's care.

It seemed to Effie to-night, standing out under the stars, as if George,
too, were dead. The old George was really dead, and a stranger had taken
his place. This stranger wore the outward guise of her brother--he had
his eyes, his figure; his voice had the same tone, he could look at you
just in George's way, but he could utter terrible words which George had
never known anything about. He could talk of _sin_ and _prison_. He