“Albert,” said Ada, smiling through her tears, “I will answer your last question first—I am glad to see you, so very glad that I could weep for joy.”
“Nay, dear Ada, weep not. You shall never weep again if Albert Seyton can save a tear from dimming your eyes.”
“I know it,” said Ada; “you were ever kind to the poor persecuted Ada.”
“I loved you, Ada.”
“Oh, Albert; I have passed through such horrors since we met.”
“Horrors, Ada?”
“Yes; and even now I shudder to think of my situation. I am destitute, homeless, hopeless.”
“No, Ada,” said Albert; “there you wrong yourself and my love; destitute you cannot be while I have an arm to labour for you—homeless you shall not be, for my father, who is an honourable gentleman, will love you as his adopted daughter. Can you then call yourself friendless, Ada?”
“Albert, I am—I am.”
“What, Ada; what can you be but what I know you are—all truth, all innocence and virtue?”