Ada shrunk from no living thing but Jacob Gray, and him she avoided as much as possible. He always brought home with him food enough for their wants, and Ada took her portion in silence. There was one small room which she had appropriated to her own use, and into that room she forbade Jacob Gray to enter. Wicked and ruthless as he was, that young girl had acquired a kind of moral control over him which he could not shake off. They never conversed. They had no discussions. Their whole intercourse resolved itself to this:—That he would murder her if she did not promise to abide where she was without making an effort to escape, and she, having promised so much, was otherwise a free agent, and under no sort of control from him. Thus the seasons had rolled on, and Ada had marked the subsidence of winter and the budding beauty “Of the sweet spring-time,” from her lonely home. Sometimes Jacob Gray would be absent for a whole day, and Ada was glad he stayed away, for she would then sing to herself old ballads which were dear to her, because the book from which she had learnt them had been lent to her by Albert Seyton. But when she heard his well-known signal of return, she went to her own room, and sung no more. Thus, to a certain extent, Ada enjoyed the glorious summer, although she could not wander in the green fields, or lose herself among shady trees. The soft genial air, however, visited the ill-omened house at Battersea, as freely as it blew its sweets in at the windows of a palace, and these were moments when Ada felt most happy. Gray, when he remained out the whole day, never mentioned to Ada his intention of so doing; but she knew that if the day fully dawned and he came not, that he would wait until the shades of evening rendered it safe for him to cross the fields without the risk of observation. On these occasions it seemed to Ada as if she was half liberated from her prison, so grateful to her was the absence of Jacob Gray; and after seeing the day fairly commenced, and rambling through the old house without encountering the object of her dread and dislike, she would feel comparatively happy. It was on one of these occasions that we propose conducting our readers to the Lone House at Battersea. Gray had gone out the preceding evening at sunset, and the morning came without bringing him back again. A glorious morning it was—full of life, beauty, and sunshine. The summer air blew sweetly into the chamber of the lovely girl; but the very murmuring of the soft breeze was company to her, and the twitter of the happy birds as they flew past the old house fell like Nature’s own music, as indeed it was, upon her innocent heart. Hastily dressing herself she rose, and with a slow, cautious step, descended to Gray’s sitting-room. He was not there. Here she stood for a few minutes upon the principal staircase, and listened attentively. No sound disturbed the repose that dwelt in that house. Ada smiled.