“Suppose—suppose,” gasped Ada, looking beseechingly in Albert’s face, as if her whole existence hung upon his reply—“suppose my name was a disgrace.”
“A disgrace?”
“Yes; suppose I had found a father whose hands were stained with blood.”
“Oh, no—no—Ada. This is some chimera of your own overwrought fancy.”
“Suppose it’s true, Albert Seyton; could you—dared you then call me your Ada?”
“I could—I dared.”
“If—I were—the child of a—a—”
“A what?”
“A murderer!”
Albert took her hand gently and tenderly.