“Do you—can you,” said Ada, and a radiant blush suffused her cheeks as she spoke—“can you tell me, if you know where a Sir Seyton lives?” “Does he know you had a necklace?” said the Jew. “No, I scarcely knew it myself.” “Indeed!” cried the jeweller, lifting up his eyes and hands. “My dear, I don’t know the gentleman you mention.” “I thank you,” said Ada, rising. She left the shop, and looking back after she had gone a few paces, she could not derive how it was that the Jew was putting up his shutters with nervous haste. She little knew that her necklace was of Indian pearls, and worth a very large sum indeed. To her joy, after she had proceeded a few paces further, she saw that the second house, down a small turning to her left, was a little dairy—and immediately entering, she requested of the old woman who served, a draft of milk. It was handed to her, and she drank it off with great pleasure and laid on the little counter her guinea. “Would you like the rest, miss?” said the old woman; “you do seem tired, to be sure.” “I am tired,” said Ada, “and would gladly rest myself, if I am not in your way.” “Dear heart, no,” said the old woman. “Come in here, it’s warmer than the shop. What weather we do have to be sure.” Ada accompanied, the woman to the little parlour at the back of the shop, and the good dame placed before her some rolls and more milk, of which the wearied girl partook with more pleasure than she ever made breakfast with before. “You are too young to be out by yourself,” said the dame; “and a great deal too pretty too.” Ada shook her head, as she said,— “Do you know where resides a Mr. Seyton?” “No,” replied the woman. “This London is such an immense place, that it’s like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay to find anybody.” “If I could find him,” sighed Ada, “he would be my friend. Is there a gentleman named Sir Francis Hartleton?” “Indeed there is; and if you want him, he lives close at hand. He is a magistrate, and as good a man as ever breathed.” “Indeed,” said Ada, “’Tis very strange!” “What’s strange, my dear?” “Oh, nothing—nothing. Can you show me to his house?” “Yes; if you come to the door, I can point it out for you, though he very likely to be at his office, and that’s across the park.” Ada accompanied the old woman to her outer door, and she pointed out to the refreshed and much revived girl a handsome house, as the residence of Sir Francis Hartleton. She again tendered her guinea, but the kind-hearted woman replied— “Pho, pho, my dear. You sha’n’t change your guinea for a sup of milk.” The tears gathered to Ada’s eyes at this trifling act of kindness, and she grasped the hand of the good dame, warmly, as she said, in a voice of emotion,— “I am not used to kindness.” “Not used to kindness? Ah, well, poor thing! If your friend, Sir Francis Hartleton, ain’t in the way, come here again.” “If I live,” said Ada, “I will visit you again.”