“But there are reverses, Ada, a hundred times worse than any change of food or dress. There are changes of condition that seem to rend one’s very identity. Here, I had respect, attention, deference, and now, I go, Heaven knows where, to render these tributes to Heaven knows whom. Tell me of yourself, my sweet Ada. It is a far brighter theme to dwell on.”
“No, no; not if I must part with you,” said she, sobbing; “but you will write to me, my own darling Kate? We shall write to each other continually till we meet again?”
“If I may. If I be permitted,” said Kate, gravely.
“What do you—what can you mean?” cried Ada, wildly. “You speak as though some secret enemy were at work to injure you here, where you have found none but friends who love you.”
“Don’t you know, my dear Ada, that love, like money, has a graduated coinage, and that what would be a trifle to the rich man, would make the wealth of a poor one? The love your friends bear me is meted out by station; mind, dearest, I’m not complaining of this. Let us talk of Italy, rather; how happy you ought to be there!”
“If I but had you, my own dearest——”
“There, I hear Mademoiselle coming. Bathe your eyes, dear Ada; or, better still, run away before she sees you.”
Ada took this last counsel; but scarcely had she left by one door, than Mademoiselle entered by another.