“One stranger,” thought Ada, “may protect me from the insults of another,” and she paused close to the seat on which was the gentleman reading. “’Pon honour,” cried the beau who had followed her; “you walk most vulgarly fast. Ah! Ah! Really now, a delicious little creature like you ought to glide, not walk—to glide—positively glide. Ah! Ah! That would be delicious.” The gentleman who was reading looked up, his eyes met Ada’s. “Harry!” he cried. “Albert!” she replied, and bursting into tears, she clung convulsively to the arms of Albert Seyton. CHAPTER XXIX. The Young Lovers.—The Gallant of a Hundred Years Since.—Hopes and Fears.—The Dream of a True Heart. It was several moments before Ada or Albert Seyton could speak from excess of joyful emotion, and it was then the drawling, affected voice of the beau that recalled them to a consciousness of where they were, and that some one besides themselves was in the world. “’Pon honour—really—damme!” cried Ada’s persecutor. “This is extraordinary.” “Sir,” said Albert Seyton. “Well, sir,” said the beau. “I thought you spoke to me.” “’Pon honour no; I wouldn’t condescend on any account. Oh, no, ’pon honour.” “I have no desire for your conversation,” said Albert, turning his back to him. “My dear, my charming, delicious damsel,” sais the beau, smiling at Ada. “Do you know, sir,” said Albert rising, “that it is a high crime to commit an assault in the Park?” “Well, ’pon honour what then?” “Only this, that if you will come outside the gates, I’ll cane you within an inch of your life.” “Eh, oh—a perfect savage—a wild beast, ’pon honour,” said the beau, making a precipitate retreat. “Oh, Harry; dear, dear Harry!” said Albert; “by what kind mercy of Heaven are you here?” “Albert, do not call me Harry.” “My own girl, I know you by no other name. I am not surprised to see you in these becoming garments.” “You—you did not know—” “That my playmate, Harry, was a beautiful girl,” interrupted Albert. “No—I did not—my father it was who first breathed the suspicion that such was the fact. And now tell me some dear feminine name to call you by.” “My name is Ada.” “Ada? A charm is in the sound. My own dear, dear Ada. How came you here—have you thought of me? Where is your uncle? Are you happy—dear Ada, are you glad, to see me?” “Albert,” said Ada, smiling through her tears, “I will answer your last question first—I am glad to see you, so very glad that I could weep for joy.” “Nay, dear Ada, weep not. You shall never weep again if Albert Seyton can save a tear from dimming your eyes.” “I know it,” said Ada; “you were ever kind to the poor persecuted Ada.” “I loved you, Ada.” “Oh, Albert; I have passed through such horrors since we met.” “Horrors, Ada?” “Yes; and even now I shudder to think of my situation. I am destitute, homeless, hopeless.”