“Your pure and noble feelings, Ada,” said Lady Hartleton, much affected, “do you infinite honour. I am proud of you, my dear Ada, and hope to have the second place in your heart.” “You have the first,” said Ada. “I cannot make distinctions between those I love. I open my heart freely to you. There is room, dear lady, for you and Albert both, and for Sir Francis too.” There was a beautiful and earnest simplicity in Ada’s manner that perfectly charmed Lady Hartleton, and she encouraged her to open her heart thoroughly to her; and she was perfectly astonished at the rich store of poetry, beauty, and virtue which lay garnered up in the breast of the persecuted and beautiful girl—stores of feeling, thought, and imagination which required but the sunny influence of kindness to bring forth in all their native purity and beauty. Ada now gave Lady Hartleton an animated description of her whole course of life with Jacob Gray, commencing at her earliest recollection of being with him in various mean lodgings, and coming down through all the exciting and dangerous scenes she had passed to her denunciation of him at Charing Cross. Lady Hartleton listened to her narration with the greatest interest, and when Ada had concluded, she said,— “And you have still no clue, Ada, to your birth?” “None—none. The mysterious paper addressed to your husband by Jacob Gray most probably contained some information, but I fear that is lost for ever.” “A more strange aad eventful history I never heard,” remarked Lady Hartleton. “I have very sanguine hopes that the activity and exhaustless energy of Sir Francis will soon clear up some of the mysteries that surround you.” “Heaven grant it may be so,” said Ada. “There is one circumstance that must not be lost sight of, as it may afford some clue or corroborative evidence of your birth—that is, the necklace you sold to the Jew.” “It might, indeed,” said Ada, “I was foolish to part with it.” “Should you know the shop again?” “Certainly I should, and the man likewise. My intercourse with the world has been so very slight that I am not confused with a multitude of images and occurrences. Everything that has happened to me, and every one who has ever spoken to me, stand clear and distinct in my memory.” “Then the necklace may be recovered.” “Indeed!” “Without doubt; Sir Francis will get it back for you.” Lady Hartleton rang the bell, and when a servant appeared, she said,— “Is Sir Francis within?” “Yes, my lady,” was the reply. “He has just returned from the Secretary of State’s office.” “Ask him to come here.” The servant bowed and retired, and in a very few minutes, Sir Francis Hartleton entered the room with a smile. Ada arose and welcomed him with evident pleasure, and he said,— “Well, Ada, are you happy here?” “Too happy, sir,” she said, with emotion. “It requires all my reason to convince me it is real.”