“Now then, my dear Ada, I counsel you to hear, with a patient resignation, the will of Providence, when I tell you you are an orphan.”
One sob burst from Ada’s breast, for she had always pleased herself with the idea of some day finding a dear mother or father. That dream was now dispelled, and it was with some difficulty she could say,—
“Heaven’s will be done! I should not mourn, for have I not found all the love and care of dear parents from you, my kind friends?”
“Your father,” continued Sir Francis Hartleton, “was a noble, honourable gentleman—your mother, a lady of wealth and family.”
“Go on—go on,” gasped Ada, while Albert Seyton and Lady Hartleton looked the intense interest they felt in Sir Francis’s words.
“Will you not, Ada,” he added, “be now content with knowing so much, and seek not to dive deeper into the past.”
“Tell me more of my father and mother,” she sobbed. “Oh, leave me not to conjecture. The mind will ever conjure up from the realms of fancy tenfold horrors. Tell me all—oh, tell me all.”
“I cannot refuse you,” said Sir Francis, “because you have a right to demand to know all. Your mother, as far as I can rely upon my information, died in giving birth to you. Your father—”
Sir Francis paused, and Ada, clasping her hands, cried—“my father—what of him—oh, speak.”
“Your father fell a victim to the avarice of one whom he trusted. His own brother murdered him.”