“Another hour,” she whispered to herself—“but another hour of misery, and life commences, as it were, anew for the poor forlorn Ada. My existence, as yet, presents me with nothing but dim shadows; the dear radiant sunshine of the life which Heaven has bestowed upon me, is now at hand. Gray must see his own interests and safety in making terms with Albert and his father. He will tell all—he will absolve me from the fancied ties of friendship, and I will forgive him for all he has made me suffer. If he be very guilty, in another land he may find security and repentance—nay, make his peace with Heaven.” Such were the glowing thoughts of the young girl, who was hastening to separate herself from those who loved her, while in her guileless heart she fondly imagined she was taking the surest means of securing her happiness. Jacob Gray saw her approaching. Eagerly he watched her steps, and when she paused at the door of the house, he shrunk back into the passage, and allowed her to enter its gloomy portal. Then stepping forward; he closed the door, and said in a low tone,— “Ada, is there anything in this house you value?” Ada started, and glanced at Gray with surprise, as she replied,— “Why do you ask? You see I have returned.” “Ay. You could not desert your father!” smiled Gray. Ada shrunk back as he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and he could not but note the shudder of dislike that came over her. “Listen to me,” he said. “I will give you your choice of one or two alternatives.” “What mean you.” “You recollect the young man, Albert Seyton?” A deep blush came over Ada’s face, as she said,—“I do.” “Well—he had a father—” “He has a father still!” cried Ada. “In—deed!” sneered Gray. “You know that.” Ada looked confused. “Nay,” continued Gray, “you need not blush. Think you, Albert Seyton loves you?” “Loves me?” echoed Ada. “Ay. You have read enough to tell you the meaning of the term.” Ada was silent. “Attend to my words,” continued Gray. “I have another home besides this.” “Another home?” “Yes, Ada; and in that other home there are domestics which would place you in so proud a station, that Albert Seyton would, in calling you his some few years hence, be acquiring a rank and fortune beyond his or your wildest dreams.” Ada’s eyes sparkled as Gray spoke, and she involuntarily moved a step towards him. The thought of enriching, perhaps ennobling, the poor dependent Albert Seyton, was delightful to her heart. “Oh!” she cried, “if you can do this, I will forget all the past.” “At my house,” said Gray. “’Tis near at hand.” “I will count the minutes till you return,” said Ada. “Oh, go at once.” “Yes, but not alone. You go with me, or I go not at all. Come, Ada, quick. We shall be back very soon. You are equipped for walking. We will go together.” “No—I—wish not to leave here,” said Ada. “Not leave here? Has your love for this place suddenly grown so strong?” “I am weary,” said Ada.