"Her name, what is her name?" cried Ada, impelled to the question by some intuitive impulse, that she neither comprehended nor cared to conceal. "What is the child's name, I say?"
"Julia Warren."
"A fair, gentle girl, with eyes that seems to crave affection, as violets open their leaves for the dew when they are thirsty; a frail, delicate little thing, toiling under a burden of flowers! I have seen a young creature like this more than once. She haunts me—her name itself haunts me—and why, why!—she is nothing to me—I am nothing to her?"
Ada spoke in low tones, communing with herself; and the woman looked on, wondering at the words as they dropped so unconsciously from those beautiful lips.
"It is the same girl, I am sure of it," said the woman, at last. "She had no flowers when I saw her tottering with her poor wet eyes into the prison; but her face might have been bathed in their perfume, it was so full of sweetness. It was so—so holy I was near saying, but the word is a strange one for me. Well, madam, this young girl has been in prison with me, and the like of me!"
"She must come out—she shall not remain there an hour!" said Ada, searching eagerly among the folds of her dress for a purse, which was not to be found. "It is not here, I will ring for Jacob; you want money to get this young girl out of prison; that is kind, very kind; you shall have it. Oh, heavens! the thought suffocates me—that angel child—that beautiful flower spirit in prison! Woman, why did you not come to me before?"
"I was in prison myself—the officers don't let us out so easily. We are not exactly expected to make calls; besides, how should I know anything about you, except as one of those proud women who gather up their silken garments when we come near, as if it were contagion to breathe the same atmosphere with us."
"But how is it that you have come to me at last?"
"She told me about you!"