“Oh,” cried Ada, “I think that I could be so happy without power—without wealth—my own ambition is to be surrounded by kind and loving hearts, and happy faces—tongues that knew no guile, and breasts that harboured no suspicion. Surely then, enough of variety might be found, in watching the wonders of the changing seasons—enough of joy in marking the many charms which He who made us all, has cast around us for our pleasure.”
“You, my dear Ada, have the elements of happiness in your heart; but now that we are alone, have you sufficient confidence in me, to tell me at length all your history?”
“Confidence?” said Ada. “Oh, yes; and in whom could I have confidence, if not in you?”
“Then sit here by me, and tell me all. We will be mutually confidential, Ada, and have no secrets but in common. Now tell me, is your happinesss quite perfect? Have you no secret yearning of the heart yet ungratified, Ada?”
“My happiness,” said Ada, “is perfect with hope—a hope that must surely ripen into a dear reality.”
“Then you have a hope—a wish that lives upon hope—an expectation yet ungratified, Ada?”
“Madam,” said Ada, gazing without the least timidity into the eyes of Lady Hartleton, “when I was quite friendless and oppressed, there was one who loved me—when no other human heart spoke a word of consolation to me, there was one that beat for me, and bade its owner whisper to me words of dearer hope and joy, than ever before had lingered in my ears. Wonder not then, that even now, when I have so much to be thankful and grateful for, my heart yearns for him to share its new born joy.”
“And his name?” said Lady Hartleton.
“Is Albert Seyton,” said Ada, with a sigh.
“Is he handsome, Ada?”