“Tell me all that has happened to you since we last parted,” said Albert. “My own history is very shortly summed up. My father, remained some few weeks longer at Mrs. Strangeways, and then having by dint of earnest applications and remonstrances, procured some portion of what was his due from the Government, we have come close here by Buckingham House, and I am myself in the hope of procuring a situation as private secretary to a man, they say, of enormous wealth and great liberality.” “I joy in your prospects,” said Ada. “Alas! Mine is a darker retrospect—a gloomier future.” “Nay, Ada, our happiness must go hand-in-hand; or farewell to it for Albert Seyton.” Ada sighed. “You forget, Albert, that I am beset with difficulties—strange mysteries are around me; who and what I am, even, I know not; although perhaps my ignorance is my greatest joy, while it is my constant source of anxiety, for I have hope now which might by a knowledge of the truth be extinguished for ever.” “Your hope shall become a bright certainty,” said Albert, fervently; “and now, tell me, Ada, of your present situation. You have more freedom, or you would not be in the Great Mall of St. James’s Park.” “My freedom is but transitory,” sighed Ada. “How so?” “Last night there came with furious knocking at our house, two men. My uncle said they came to take his life and mine, but that, not finding me, they would allow him to escape.” “’Tis very strange.” “He urged me then to change my boyish clothing for these garments. I resisted his request; he implored me—begged of me to do so, saying that those who sought me knew me but as a boy, and would allow a girl to pass out unmolested. Still I refused, for he had taken the life of a poor dog that loved me, and my mind was sore against him. He kneeled to me, wept, and at the last moment declared himself my father and a murderer!” “Good Heavens!” “Yes; the words fell like a thunderbolt on my heart. The men were at the door; there was not time to think. With frantic speed I did his bidding.” “And the plan succeeded?” “It did. With wondering looks they let me pass. I wandered I know not where;—to some bridge I came at length, and there, as I lay crouching from the cold of the raw morning, one of the men passed over.” “One of those who sought Jacob Gray?” “Yes, the most violent. There, within my hearing, he had an altercation with a poor mad wanderer, from whom I heard his name.” “His name, Ada?—It may afford some clue.” “It may. She called him Andrew Britton.” “Andrew Britton!—I will not forget.” “He attempted her murder. My screams, I believe, saved her life.” “And their discourse, Ada?—What said they?” “Their speech was of some child to whom great wrong had been done years since. Oh, Albert, my heart told me it was of me they spoke.” “Could you learn nothing of the woman?”