They passed the door, and Albert was saved. In a few moments more the old woman procured a light, and then peering at Albert from her deep sunken eyes, she said,—
“And who may you be, young gentleman? I don’t know you, I’m sure.”
“Ask no questions,” cried Albert, as he took the light from her, “but on your soul, tell me, in which room of this house resides a young girl, by name, Ada?”
The old woman was alarmed at his vehemence, and tremblingly muttered, that she did not know who he meant, for there was no such person to her knowledge there.
“One Gray lives here?” said Albert.
“Oh, yes,” said the woman, “I’ve heard there’s a Mr. Gray up stairs.”
Albert waited not another moment, but bounded up the staircase with the light in his hand.
“Ada—Ada. ’Tis I—Albert,” he said, as he reached the top landing.
The echoes of the old house were the only sounds that replied to him, and shading the light with his hand, he walked into Jacob Gray’s room, the door of which was partially open. Everything appeared in confusion, and the first article that Albert trod upon was the cloak, which had fallen from its hook at the back of the door. A feeling of awe crept over him, which he could not account for. His blood seemed to creep through his veins, and there was an anxious flutter at his heart, as he again, but in a lower tone, pronounced the name of Ada.
All was silent as the grave. Albert stood a few paces only within the doorway, and his heart misgave him, that something dreadful must have happened to her he loved.