Ada shook her head. “Bad taste and false reasoning, Kate. The false reasoning I pass over, for there is often poetry, if seldom justice in comparisons between things tangible and immaterial, but for the crime of sinking love to a level with intemperance, you deserve ‘La peine forte et dure.’” And having enlisted Catharine in a defense of her taste and judgment, Ada took advantage of the first pause that ensued, to take her leave. She threw herself back into her carriage, and her reveries were of auld lang syne. Her rescue—(it had been no jest!) her subsequent love for the noble boy who had risked something to save her—his departure—her childish grief—one by one, in the twilight of memory, rose the phantoms of the past; and then, as Ada’s fancy sketched its ideal of James Darrington’s present self, she wondered whether— But just at that moment she felt the carriage violently thrown back, and heard a tumult of voices, giving token that something unusual had happened. A child had just been rescued from under her horses’ feet. “Is he killed?” exclaimed the shuddering girl; but no answer was vouchsafed to her terrified inquiries; for the crowd was like all other crowds, and a fine lady was of less consequence than a mangled child—for a mangled child was a spectacle! There was much pushing—many oaths—much angry contention; for every man in the crowd was determined to see the child himself, and was fiercely engaged in forcing his way, and in abusing the curiosity of his fellows. Ada shuddered again—but it was with disgust. At length the dense mass before her began to thin—and the oaths to cease. The child was not mangled, and there had been nothing to see. There was now room for her to act. She dared not alight, but she called her footman. “Quick! Quick, Grey, go bring me news of that poor child, and say that I will take it in my carriage to the nearest physician.” The footman disappeared, and Ada counted five minutes of intense anxiety. At length he returned. The gentleman who had rescued the child, accepted her offer, for no physician resided any where near, and this was the best plan that as yet had been proposed. “Then fetch him, Grey, and let us begone,” said his trembling mistress. Grey pointed to an opening, where a gentleman was seen advancing with the child in his arms. He then opened the door, and Ada leaned forward to receive the little plebian, but his preserver drew back. “Nay,” said he, respectfully, “that would be repaying benevolence with imposition. The child is heavy and unfit for such hands as yours. If you will not deem me impertinent then,” added he, slightly coloring, “I will carry him myself.” Ada comprehended the implied request, and permission was as frankly given as it had been asked.