“Question me not,” cried Gray, impatiently. “I—I would have desired your company—but will not enforce it.” “You cannot,” said Ada. “Cannot? You know not what you say.” “You dare not!” added Ada. She had learnt by experience that she could defy Jacob Gray to his face successfully. Her only fear of him was that he would murder her while she slept or mingle poison with her food! She could not look on him. “Leave me, then! Leave me if you will,” he said. “I will not invade your chamber.” “If you were,” said Ada, “you might perchance be frozen with horror by meeting the form you have described, with so much dread—a form which the voice of nature hints must be that of my murdered father!” As she spoke, Ada walked to the door of the room, but ere she reached it, Gray called to her. “Ada, stay yet a moment!” “You forget!” “Forget what?” “That I must this day again receive your promise to exert no contrivance for your escape from me. At twelve to-day your word expired.” “Oh!” cried Ada. “Then I was free?” “No,” said Gray, “you were not free! I knew that if you meditated escape, you would seize the first moment! I watched this house from twelve till two. Then as you came not forth, I knew I was safe.” “And you departed?” “I did.” Had Jacob Gray watched another hour he would have seen Maud hunted to the old house. “Your promise, girl,” he cried. “Before we part to-night I must have your solemn promise!” “On the same condition,” said Ada, “to preserve that life which God has given me, I will give you my promise.” “Be it so,” said Gray. “Then in the name of Heaven, I promise from, one month from now that if aid come not to me—if no one comes here to take me hence, and offer me liberty, I will remain a prisoner! So help me Heaven!” “Enough,” said Gray, “I am content. I know you will keep your word, Ada.” “How is it,” said Ada, “that you can trust thus to my word, Jacob Gray? Have you not taught me deceit? Were I to deceive you as you have deceived me, could you blame me?” “Question me not,” cried Gray. “I have said I would trust to your word. Let that suffice.” Ada turned away, and sought the solitude of her own room. She always wept bitterly after renewing her promise to Gray—it seemed like pushing hope to a further distance from her heart, and on this occasion, when she was alone, the tears dimmed her eyes as she reflected another month—another month! But then even upon the instant, a small still voice within her heart seemed to whisper to her that there were now better grounds for hope than ever. She had made an effort by the slip of paper that poor Mad Maud had taken with her—and her promise to Gray was expressly conditional, so that if Albert Seyton should seek her, she was free! How delightful did that word sound to the desolate heart of the young girl. She clasped her hands, and a smile played over her face like a sunbeam on a lake.