"Ada Wilcox!" said the woman, with a start; "let me down, Jacob Strong; my name is not Ada Wilcox; all that bore that name are gone; the homestead is full of strangers; Wilcox is a dead name; that of Leicester has crept over it like night-shade over a grave."
Jacob Strong unfolded his arms so abruptly, that Ada almost fell to the earth.
"I had forgotten that name," he said with mournful sternness.
The poor woman attempted to stand up, but she wavered, and her pale face was lifted with piteous helplessness toward him.
"No, Jacob, I tremble—this blow has taken all my life. Help me to stand up, that I may look on the old homestead once more. How often have we looked upon it from this spot!"
"I remember," answered Jacob, "the moonlight lies upon the roof as it did that night; the old pear tree had stretched its shadow just to the garden fence."
Jacob Strong grew pale in the moonlight. Ada felt his arm shake beneath the grasp of her hand.
"You shiver with the cold," she said.
"It is cold, madam; the dew is heavy; I will go forward and break a path through the grass. It will not be the first time."