‘Dr. Langstroth,’ said she, ‘I’m going to ask a great favour of you.’ ‘Are you, Ada? I am glad to hear it.’ ‘It is, that if you’ve a little time to spare, you’d walk with me through the town. You see, you have that character that whatever you choose to do, you may do; you won’t lose any reputation by being seen with me. I—I’ve been thinking that when you and Miss Askam are married, and I go back to father and mother, I cannot bear the long days in the house there, as I have done here. It would drive me mad. But if I’m left to myself, I shall never have the courage to walk out alone. I thought, if you’d go out with me this once, just down the town, then perhaps I might not be afraid to find my way back alone, over the old bridge and up here again, if you do not mind.’ This was by far the longest speech Ada had made since she had been under Eleanor’s roof, and Michael watched her attentively as she spoke, and noticed that she did not meet his eye. ‘Mind!’ he echoed, rising; ‘no, I do not mind, Ada. I am very glad to find you disposed to make this beginning. Let us go. Miss Askam will spare me.’ ‘Surely, Michael!’ said Eleanor; but she looked at him anxiously, for her keen sympathy told her that he was not altogether easy about this decision of Ada’s. She looked at him earnestly, and her fears were not lulled when she found that he avoided looking at her, though he waved his hand a little, and smiled, saying they should not be long. ‘Oh, Michael, take care of _yourself_,’ she whispered in his ear; to which he nodded, and followed Ada out of the room. Eleanor watched them from the window, and saw that they walked slowly. Two minutes after they had gone, Gilbert came in. ‘You are alone,’ he said; ‘I am not sorry, Eleanor, for I want to say something to you.’ ‘Yes, Gilbert,’ said she, and he was surprised when she took the hand he extended into both her own, and pressing it almost convulsively, said, rapidly, and with a kind of passion in her tones—‘Another time I will see you alone—whenever you like; and if you have any favour to ask of me, I swear I will grant it; but oh, Gilbert, listen to me, now. Ada has asked Michael to take her for a walk through the town, because she dare not go alone. I know he thinks she is going to try to do something dreadful, because she is not sane, though she seems so; he told me so. Perhaps to kill herself, or him. Who can answer for the fancies of a madwoman? I hate her sometimes.’ ‘Well?’ he echoed, looking down into her upturned face, which seemed to blaze with emotion, and feeling a spasm contract his own heart. ‘Will you not follow them, Gilbert, dear Gilbert? For my sake, if it is not too selfish of me to ask it. If you will not go, I must. I cannot tell why I feel this agony of fear, but I do, and it masters me. To please me, Gilbert; and I will do what I can to please you, afterwards.’