‘Not at all, or I should not have asked her. Would you like to come with me, little Ada?’ asked Miss Wynter, turning to the child neither coldly nor unkindly, but with no change of expression at all—no lighting up of her soft, dark, quiet eyes; not the ghost of a smile upon her tranquil sculptured lips.
At first, Ada hung back; and her mother began to expostulate with her, saying how good it was of the lady to invite her to go with her.
The lady, in the same soft and gentle tone, remarked presently—
‘Oh, she won’t understand that, of course. If you will come with me, Ada, I will give you a pretty necklace, and a ribbon.’
At this prospect, all hesitation fled. Ada submitted at once to be made ready, Mrs. Dixon remarking admiringly—
‘Eh, but you have found the right road to her heart, miss, and that cleverly.’
‘I will sit here, and wait till she is ready. Don’t put on her best frock, or anything of that kind, you know. She will do just as she is.’
Miss Wynter furthermore promised to restore Ada to her home and friends later in the evening, but Mrs. Dixon said she had to send her servant to the Balder Hall farm for butter, and she should call for the little girl and bring her back. Ada was perched in the carriage beside Miss Wynter, in which position she was seen of sundry comrades as she drove away.
They called to her; asked her where she was going, and cried—
‘Eh, but, Ada, what a grand lady you are, to be sure!’