The Evansville journal. [volume] (Evansville, Ind.) 1866-1870, 1868-11-18

Il
if it had been a revelation from
heaven. The happiest news in the
world could not have been more ca.
gerly received. He was safe. Ht
had put the channel between him and
his pursuers. There was no need for
further watching. The relief in it.
self was positive happiness. Ten
days ago it would have been heart
rending to think of Harry Gresham
as an escaped criminal, as an exile,
for whom return was impossible; dis
graced, nameless. and without hope.
To-day the news was joyful news; he
was safe, If nothing more.
Then for the first time Ada indulg-
ed in the luxury of tears-tears that
came 10 foods, like those thunder
showers which ease the hearts of the
young. She threw herself on my neck
aud kissed me again and again. " |
should have died but for you; had
no mamma of my own to 20 to-" she
sobbed like a baby. Perhaps the
thing that made these childish words
go to my heart was that | had no
child.
OF course I expected, aud every.
body will expect, that after this ex-
citement she should have fallen i'll.
But she did not. On the contrary,
she came down stairs with me, and
ate (almost for. the first time) and
smiled, and played with her children,
while stood by with the feeling that
ought to have brain fever myself, if
Ada would not see what was expected
of her. But as tho day ran on, she
became grave, aud ever graver She
said little, aud it was mostly about
Gerald; how he must come home aud
manage everything; how she was de-
termined to take no rest, listen to no
argument, till the money was paid. L
went home to my own house that
eveRing, and she made no opposition.
| said good night to her in the nur-
sery, where she was sitting close by
her little girls bed. She was crying
poor child, but | did not wonder
at that; and nurse was a kind wo-
man. and very attentive to her little
mistress. / went round to the terrace
and out by the garden, without haY-
ing any particular reason for it. But
before / reached the gate some one
came tripping after me, and, looking
round, [ saw it was Ada, wrapped in
a great waterproof cloak. She was
going to walk home with me, she
said. I resisted her coming, but it
was In vain. 1t was a warm, balmy
night, and | could not understand why
she should have put on her great
cloak. But as soon as she was safe
in my little drawing-room, her secret
came out. Then she opened her
mantle with a smile. On one of her
arms hung a bundle; on the other
rested her sleeping baby. She laugh
ed at my amaze, aud then she cried.
(" | am going to Harry" she said: and
held her child closer, and dried her
eyes and sat immovable, ready to lis
ten to anything l chose to say.
could think of-of the folly of
it, of her foolhard ness; that
she was totally unable for the
task she was putting on herself;
that Harry had Gerald, and could do
without her. All which she listened
to with a smile, impenetrable,
and not to be moved. When L had
come to an end of my arguments, she
stretched out to me the arm on which
the bundle hung, and drew me close
to her, and kissed me again. You
are going to give me some biscuits
and little flask of VINE" she said,
{" to put in my pocket have one of
the hOusekeeper's old-fasi Toned pock-
cts, which il of some use. And then
you must say God tless you, and let
me GO"
God bless you, my poor child"
said, overcome; but you must not
go: little ADJ too"
Then her eyes filed with tears
/" My pretty darinel" she said; but
grandma NINA will take her to Bishops
Hope. It is only baby that cannot
live without his mother. Baby and
Harry. WHAT'S Gerald? / know he
wants me.
But he can wait" 1 cried; land
you 50 young. so delicate, SO unused
to any troubled"
+" can carry my child perfectly"
said Ada. never was delicates
There is a train at eleven, down to
Southampton. | found it out in the
book: and after that know nay way.
/ am a very good traveller, she said i,
with a smile, and Gerald must
come to settle everything. Give me
the biscuits, dear Mrs Mulgrave, and
kiss me, and let me 60"
Aud it had to be so, though l
pleaded with her till / was hoarse.
When the moment came, put on my
cloak, too, and walked with her, late
as it was, mile off to the new sta
ton, which both she aud l had
thought too far for walking in the
cheerful daylight. 1 carried the
bundle, while she carried the baby,
and we looked like two homely coun-
trywomeu trudg;ng home. She drew
her hood over her head while she got
her ticket, and / waited outside.
Then in the dark I kissed her for the
last time. l could not speak, nor did
she. She took the bundle from me,
grasping my hand with her soft fin
fers almost as a man might have done I;
and we kissed each other with anguish,
ike people who part forever. And /
have never seen her again.
As I came back, frightened and
miserable, all by myself along the
moonlit road, | had to pass the
Stokes cottage. Lottie was leaning
out of the window, though it was now
nearly midnight, with her face, all
pallid in the moon, turned towards
Dinglewood. l could scarcely keep
myself from calling to her. She did
not know what we had been doing
yet her heart had been with US that
NIGHT