"Hush!" said Jacob, "she is listening."
"Stay—tell me all—the old man—tell me all!" cried Ada, hurrying down two or three steps after the woman.
"I cannot wait, lady; the jury may come in any moment. Those poor watchers will want a carriage. I must find one somewhere. Nobody thought of that but me. They might not feel the storm, for the verdict will numb them; but it is a piercing night."
"You have no cloak—scarcely more than summer clothes. I will go," said Jacob.
"I am used to battling with the weather," was the answer. "Thank you, though."
"Stay with her," answered Jacob, and he hurried down the steps.
"How the wind blows!—it is a terrible night," said the woman, drawing her scant shawl together, and sitting down by Ada, who had sunk upon the cold steps, as if all the strength had withered from her limbs the moment Jacob left her. "You tremble—your teeth chatter—these poor hands are like ice; there, there, let me rub them between mine."
Ada submitted her shivering hands meekly as a child, and a drop, that was not rain, stole down her face.
"You told me once," she said, "that money would save him; will thousands—hundreds of thousands do it now?"
"It is too late," answered the woman, sadly.