“When did you first think of this?” Mr. Meres asked, when he could command his voice. “I cannot tell you. I think the seed was in my mind long ago, and it has grown slowly.” She spoke with much simplicity, and with natural earnestness. “I never rejoiced in my future,” she continued, “unless, perhaps, in a few moments of misery. I never in earnest realised the possession of it. How could I? This wealth was not mine; a mere will could give me no right in it. I have often, in thinking over it, been brought to a kind of amazement at the unquestioning homage paid to arbitrary law. You know that mood in which simple, every-day matters are seen in their miraculous light. My whole self revolted against such laws. It seemed a kind of conjuring with human lives--something basely ludicrous. And the surrender costs me nothing; I assure you it costs me nothing! To say there was merit in it would be ridiculous. I simply could not accept what is offered me. Oh, how light I feel!” Meres looked at her admiringly. “And to consent to be the instrument of a dead mans malice!” Her scorn was passionate. “Isn’t it enough to think of that? What did he care for me, a wretched, parentless child, put out to nurse with working-people! It was baser cruelty to me than to Mrs. Clarendon. Oh, _how_ did she consent to be rich on those terms?” “Ada, you must try and think tenderly of her,” said Meres, with the softness which always marked his voice when he spoke of Isabel. “I have told you of her early poverty. She was a beautiful girl, and without the education which might have given her high aims; the pleasant things of the world tempted her, and frivolous society did its best to ruin her. It did not touch her heart; that has always been pure, and generous, and womanly. Try never to think of her failings.” “I wish I were not a woman!” Ada exclaimed. “It is that which makes me judge her hardly. Men--all men--see her so differently.” “Ada Warren!” he grasped the arm of his chair convulsively, speaking in sudden forgetfulness of everything but his passion, “if by my death I could save her from the most trifling pain I would gladly die this hour!” She gazed at him with a daughters tenderness, and sighed: “I shall never hear such words as those.” “My child, your reward is in the future. Fate has given you nobility alike of heart and brain, and, if you live, you will lack no happiness that time has in its bestowal. Go, now, Ada, and leave me to myself. This hour has made me feel old. My quiet life does not fit me for these scenes. I am horribly shaken.” She rose, and bent her head that again he might kiss her on the brows. “You shall be my father,” she said, her voice faltering. “May I call you father from now?” He turned from her, pressing her hand, and she left him. CHAPTER XVI.