“Ada Warren!” he grasped the arm of his chair convulsively, speaking in sudden forgetfulness of everything but his passion, “if by my death I could save her from the most trifling pain I would gladly die this hour!”
She gazed at him with a daughters tenderness, and sighed:
“I shall never hear such words as those.”
“My child, your reward is in the future. Fate has given you nobility alike of heart and brain, and, if you live, you will lack no happiness that time has in its bestowal. Go, now, Ada, and leave me to myself. This hour has made me feel old. My quiet life does not fit me for these scenes. I am horribly shaken.”
She rose, and bent her head that again he might kiss her on the brows.
“You shall be my father,” she said, her voice faltering. “May I call you father from now?”
He turned from her, pressing her hand, and she left him.