Again Mr. Delafield’s long arm was extended, and catching Ada, as she was passing, he drew her to his side, where he held her firmly, saying, “It looks suspicious, Ada, that you are not willing to hear Miss Lee’s defence. You have, either by mistake or design (the former, I hope), preferred against her serious charges, and you _must_ listen to her explanation. Commence,” he added, looking down upon me, and in a firm, unfaltering manner I told both my story and that of Anna, who, I said, had eloped with Herbert Langley and was now a broken-hearted widow, living with his mother in Boston. At this part of my narrative Ada’s hand was pressed convulsively on her side, while with parted lips and pale cheeks she leaned forward, looking at me anxiously; but when she saw that I did not speak of her ever having been engaged to Herbert, the color came back to her face, and with a sigh of relief she listened more composedly, nodding assent when I referred her to our meeting at the dépôt at Canandaigua, and faintly admitting that “she might have been mistaken. I looked so much like Anna that ’twas not impossible.” This I knew was false, but I did not contradict her, and proceeded with my story, until suddenly recollecting the incident at the theatre, I turned to Mr. Delafield and asked “if he remembered it?” He thought a moment, and then the arm, which had gradually been winding itself about my waist, clasped me to his side, while he exclaimed, “Remember it? Perfectly, and _you_ are that little girl. They called you Rose;—and this is why your face has puzzled me so much. I see it all now. You _are_ innocent, thank Heaven,” and the hand, which, heretofore, had held Ada fast, now rested caressingly upon my head and parted back my curls, as he said, more to himself than to me, “and you have remembered _me_ all this time.” Then, turning towards Ada, he said sternly, “We will hear you now.” Ada was caught in her own snare. She had thought to prevent me from doing her injury by branding me as a _liar_, and now that I was proved innocent, it filled her with confusion, and she remained silent until Mrs. Lansing came to her aid by saying, “I do not think Ada meant to do wrong; she probably mistook Rose for her sister, hence the blunder.” This gave Ada courage, and crossing over to me, she took my hand, begging my forgiveness and saying “she _had_ been mistaken—she certainly did not mean to do me so great a wrong, and she hoped I would forget it and try to look upon her as my friend, for such she would henceforth be.”