While Sir Francis Hartleton was still engaged in these reflections a low knock sounded on the door of his room, and when he cried, “come in,” the happy face of Ada appeared like a beam of sunshine in the entrance.
“Ada,” he said, “come in.”
There were the humid traces of tears upon her cheek, but they were like the pearly drops of dew which hung upon the rose leaves, speaking not of sorrow or decay, but giving new beauty to what before seemed matchless. They were tears of joy, and the magistrate saw that they were so. He held out his hand to Ada, as he said with a smile,—
“Will you forgive me for tormenting Albert a little?”
“He will scarce forgive himself,” said Ada, “and sends me as his ambassador.”
“He had a right to feel a little angry, Ada. But has he told you that your old enemy is dead?”
“He has,” said Ada. “Much as I had to complain of against Jacob Gray, I would that he had come to some gentler death. Heaven have mercy upon him!”
“He has need of heaven’s mercy, Ada. But are you not much disappointed that all chance of discovering your name and station seems now faded away?”
“I scarcely know how to answer you,” said Ada, “for hope that it may not be so has, within the last half hour, disturbed me more with anxious doubts and fearful surmises than ever agitated my breast before. This paper—”
As she spoke, she handed to Sir Francis the confession of Gray still sealed up as Albert had picked it from the garden.