“No, Ada,” said Albert; “there you wrong yourself and my love; destitute you cannot be while I have an arm to labour for you—homeless you shall not be, for my father, who is an honourable gentleman, will love you as his adopted daughter. Can you then call yourself friendless, Ada?” “Albert, I am—I am.” “What, Ada; what can you be but what I know you are—all truth, all innocence and virtue?” “Suppose—suppose,” gasped Ada, looking beseechingly in Albert’s face, as if her whole existence hung upon his reply—“suppose my name was a disgrace.” “A disgrace?” “Yes; suppose I had found a father whose hands were stained with blood.” “Oh, no—no—Ada. This is some chimera of your own overwrought fancy.” “Suppose it’s true, Albert Seyton; could you—dared you then call me your Ada?” “I could—I dared.” “If—I were—the child of a—a—” “A what?” “A murderer!” Albert took her hand gently and tenderly. “Ada,” he said, “crime is not hereditary. You are sinless, spotless, and if I desert you because you may have the misfortune to be the child of one who is guilty, may God desert me in my utmost need.” “Albert,” sobbed Ada, “I—I do not believe it; but it is a remote possibility that Jacob Gray is my father.” “Nor do I believe it,” said Albert, “’Tis against all nature—depend upon it, Ada, it is not true.” “But—but if it were?” “My Ada,” was his only reply, accompanied by a smile that fell like sunlight on the young girl’s innocent heart. “You would not, even then, despise me, Albert?” she said. “Despise you? Oh how can you associate that word with yourself? Despise you, Ada; if you knew the weary miles I have traversed in search of you, you would then feel how truly my happiness is wound up in yours. Not a street, court, or lane in the great city, has been un-trodden by me to look for you since your sudden departure from Mrs. Strangeways.” “My uncle hurried me from there to a more secret place of concealment. We have now for some time inhabited a dilapidated house in Lambeth, which you might pass a hundred times, and never guess that aught human lodged within its crumbling walls.” “And still you know not the cause of all this mystery?” “No; all is dark and mysterious as ever, Albert, except my name, my Christian name, and that in a moment of unguarded passion, Jacob Gray let slip from his lips. Oh, you know not what a pleasure it was to me, in my desolation, to find I had a right to a name.” “My poor Ada.” “Yes, Albert, I am your poor Ada.” “But rich in all true wealth, beauty, innocence, and dear virtue, such as no gold can buy.” “The kind words of those who love are so very grateful,” sighed Ada, “and they are so new to me.”