“He has not returned,” she cried; “I shall have a whole day to myself. A whole day, in which to sing over my old songs, to converse with the birds, to feed the mice and insects that abound here; and I think they have learnt to know me now, and love me in their way, and according to their several natures.” The day wore on, but it was scarcely wearisome to Ada. ’Tis true she sometimes wept when she thought how cruelly she was situated; but then she would soon smile again, and sitting opposite to an open window, she would gaze for a long time upon the clear blue sky, and speculate upon the various forms of the light fleecy vapours that imparted an additional charm to the sky, by partially concealing some of its beauties. Then she thought of those who were dear to her—of Albert Seyton—of his father—of the poor woman who had spoken a few kind words to her at the little milk-shop at Westminster. To those who have been accustomed to harshness, with what a freshening joy the recollection of a few words kindly spoken comes upon the mind! Oh, if the rich and powerful—those who are living in high places, and revelling in luxury—did but know how delightful to the bruised heart but a few simple words of common courtesy are, they would themselves feel a pleasure in speaking them, such as all the adulation of their flatterers—all the glitter of their homes—all the gaudy insignia of their rank can never bestow upon them. Ada wept with grateful joy because that poor woman spoke but a few short sentences of kindness to her! CHAPTER XXIX. The Alarm.—The Pursuit.—A Mob in the Last Century.—The Fugitive.—Maud, the Beggar. As Ada sat in an attitude of deep musing, and her long silken eyelashes were wet with the tears starting to her eyes, a confused murmuring sound from afar off came faintly to her ears. She started, for in that solitude any direct or tangible sounds from the great world without were strange and new. Bending forward in an attitude of listening, the young girl endeavoured to catch the purport of the unwonted disturbance. Still nothing but faint mingled cries and shouts came to her ear; she could hear no words distinctly, but, from the general tone of the cries, she guessed they were those of derision and contempt. So faintly were they borne across the fields, that had not the light winds blown steadily in that direction, no sound of all the uproarious voices, that were so mingled together in strange confusion, would have reached the ears of the solitary prisoner. Nearer and nearer, however, came the sounds; and Ada went to the highest floor in the house, the windows of which commanded an extensive view in all directions. Close down by the river’s side she could now discern a disorderly rabble, apparently pursuing another object. She saw the action of casting stones, and shouts, shrieks, loud laughter, and every kind of noise which the human voice is capable of producing came each moment more distinctly to her ear.