Isabel was not wrong as to the change in Ada. Outwardly there was not much evidence of the processes at work in the hidden places of her being, yet sufficient to prove to just observation whither they tended. Formerly Ada had kept to herself to hide her misery, had striven in solitude with passions which left their mark upon her face when she reappeared, had been worn with listnessness, when not overtaxing her strength to escape the torments which assailed her leisure. Now, she was seldom actively employed, yet solitude was precious to her; Isabel saw her pacing up and down the garden paths, no longer with dark and troubled face, but with the light of earnest preoccupation in her eyes, and a clear brow, which was often raised as if at the impulse of intense feeling. There was more of healthful girlishness in her motions, her smile; she would spring and catch a bough swaying above her, would run a space with the big house-dog bounding beside her. Once she came in at the front door with her breath gone, her cheeks in high colour, her hat in her hand; Isabel met her in the hall, and in surprise asked her what was the matter. “A race with the rain!” Ada panted, sinking on a chair. “I could see it coming, nearer every second; I got in as the first drop fell!” She showed a childish delight in her achievement; perhaps she enjoyed the sense of her health and strength, scarcely ever tried in active exercise. After this, running with the big dog became a daily pastime. Young Stratton caught a glimpse of her at it in the park one day, and rushed to join the sport. “After a rabbit, eh?” he shouted, coming up with them. Ada at once dropped to a walk, and spoke to the dog, instead of answering the boy’s question. “I say, you look here!” Edgar suddenly exclaimed in a whisper. She turned, and saw him aiming with a catapult at a bird perched on a bush hard by. Before the aim was perfect, Ada had snatched the tool from his hands. “Well, I call that!” cried the youngster, at a loss for words. “What do you want to spoil my shot for?” “Can’t you amuse yourself without murdering!” returned the girl, hot in anger. “Shoot at that tree-trunk if you must shoot.” “Murdering!” echoed the youth, in blank astonishment. “Come now, Miss Warren! Murdering a bird--I call that good!” “What else is it? What right have you to rob the bird of its life? What is it that drives you to kill every creature that you safely may?” “It’s fair sport!” urged the young Briton, in amaze at this outlandish mode of regarding things. “Sport?” She stood regarding him, the catapult still in her hand. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” “What am I going to be? A soldier, of course.” “I thought so; then you can murder on a large scale.” “You call killing the enemy in battle, murder?” “What do you call it? Fair sport?” “I say, Miss Warren, you’re a rum’un, you are!” observed Edgar, shaking his round head in wonder. “Are you joking?--though you don’t look like it.”