Adele made no reply,--too wise now for that; but she winced, and bit her lip severely, as the irate spinster "gave Miss Maverick to understand that an intercourse which might possibly be agreeable to her French associations could never be tolerated at the home of Dr. Johns. For herself, she had a reputation for propriety to sustain; and while Miss Maverick made a portion of her household, she must comply with the rules of decorum; and if Miss Maverick were ignorant of those rules, she had better inform herself." No reply, as we have said,--unless it may have been by an impatient stamp of her little foot, which the spinster could not perceive. But it is the signal, in her quick, fiery nature, of a determination to leave the parsonage, if the thing be possible. From her chamber, where she goes only to arrange her hair and to wipe off an angry tear or two, she walks straight into the study of the parson. "Doctor," (the "New Papa" is reserved for her tenderer or playful moments now,) "are you quite sure that papa will come for me in the spring?" "He writes me so, Adaly. Why?" Adele seeks to control herself, but she cannot wholly. "It's not pleasant for me any longer here, New Papa,--indeed it is not";--and her voice breaks utterly. "But, Adaly!--child!" says the Doctor, closing his book. "It's wholly different from what it once was; it's irksome to Miss Eliza,--I know it is; it's irksome to me. I want to leave. Why doesn't papa come for me at once? Why shouldn't he? What is this mystery, New Papa? Will you not tell me?"--and she comes toward him, and lays her hand upon his shoulder in her old winning, fond way. "Why may I not know? Do you think I am not brave to bear whatever must some day be known? What if my poor mother be unworthy? I can love her! I can love her!" "Ah, Adaly," said the parson, "whatever may have been her unworthiness, it can never afflict you more; I believe that she is in her grave, Adaly." Adele sunk upon her knees, with her hands clasped as if in prayer. Was it strange that the child should pray for the mother she had never seen? From the day when Maverick had declared her unworthiness, Adele had cherished secretly the hope of some day meeting her, of winning her by her love, of clasping her arms about her neck and whispering in her ear, "God is good, and we are all God's children!" But in her grave! Well, at least justice will be done her then; and, calmed by this thought, Adele is herself once more,--earnest as ever to break away from the scathing looks of the spinster.