Adah was silent a moment and then she answered, “Adah, Adah Hastings, but please do not ask _where_ I came from now. I will tell you of the past, though I did not even mean to do that, but something about you makes me know I can trust you.” And then, amid a shower of tears, in which Anna’s, too, were mingled, Adah told her sad story—told of the mock marriage, the cruel desertion, of Willie’s birth, her utter wretchedness, her attempt at suicide, her final trust in God, her going at last to one who gave her a home, even when he could not afford it; of her accidentally finding Anna’s advertisement, and its result. No names were given, not even that of New York. It was merely the city and the country, and forgetful of the medium through which she first heard of Adah, Anna fancied Boston to have been the scene of her trials. “But why do you wish to conceal your recent home?” she asked, after Adah had finished. “Is there any reason?” For a moment Adah was tempted to tell the whole, but when she remembered how on the day of her departure from Spring Bank Mrs. Worthington had asked her not to say any thing disparaging of ’Lina, and admitted that it would be a great relief if the Richards family should not know for the present at least that she came from Spring Bank, she replied, “At first there was none in particular, save a fancy I had, but there came one afterwards—the request of one who had been kind to me as a dear mother. Is it wrong not to tell the whole?” “I think not. You have dealt honestly with me so far, and I am sure I can trust you.” She meant to keep her then. She was not going to send her away, and Adah’s face lighted up with a joy which made it so beautiful that Anna gazed at her in surprise, marveling that any heart could be so hard as to desert that gentle girl. “Oh, may I stay?” Adah asked eagerly. “Of course you may. Did you think I would turn you away?” was Anna’s reply; and laying her head upon the white counterpane of the bed, Adah cried passionately; not a wild, bitter cry, but a delicious kind of cry which did her good, even though her whole frame quivered and her low, choking sobs fell distinctly on Anna’s ear. “Poor child!” the latter said, laying her soft hand on the bowed head. “You have suffered much, but with me you shall find rest. I want you for a companion, rather than a maid. You are better suited for it, and we shall be very happy together, I am sure, though I am so much an invalid. I, too, have had my heart trouble; not like yours, but heavy enough to make me wish I could die. I was young and wayward then. I had not learned patience where alone it is to be found.”