"It was all for your good, my dear. You know it is true that you have an attachment, and that your father is so strictly denominational that only his civility to a guest influences him to allow you to hear Mr. Barton preach. How could I infer otherwise than that he would be displeased?"
"But why speak on such a subject to him?" Ada inquired, earnestly. "It appears to me strange and indelicate, besides violating a friend's confidence."
For one moment Alice's thoughts recurred to the scene in Aunt Clarissa's chamber, when the truth made the old lady tremble, and she said to herself, "Truth is certainly very disagreeable;" but she quickly rallied and answered, in a grieved tone,—
"I see. Ada, it is time for me to leave you. You have listened to the counsels of others, and have begun to distrust your old friend. I could explain entirely to your satisfaction; but you are not in a state of mind to listen unprejudiced."
"If you knew how sad I felt when I heard it, you would not say so, Alice. Now justice to yourself demands that you should speak. There is enough of our old friendship left in my heart to plead for you."
"Perhaps I was imprudent," Alice began; "but it was all through my affection for you. I saw you were becoming so much absorbed in your attachment that your health was affected, and that your seriousness was yielding to love; and I wished to convince myself whether the attachment was mutual."
Ada's mild eyes flashed her indignation.
"I was convinced," Alice went on, "that Mr. Barton is heart whole. I don't believe he ever wasted a moment's thought on such a subject."
At this moment Mrs. Morrison entered, and, noticing that her daughter was unduly excited, recommended that Miss Saunders should retire to the parlor where she would soon join her.
After persuading Ada to lie down for a while, the lady went to her guest and requested a few moments' conversation.