“Not here!” She uttered the words just audibly. A few moments she stood, her eyes glancing around the apartment, when a low sound, like a repressed sob, came to her ears. Stepping forward, she drew aside one of the heavy window-curtains. There sat Adele, crouching upon a low ottoman, her face buried in her hands.
“We were afraid you had gone,” said Mrs. Dainty, speaking in a kind voice, and laying her hand gently on the girl’s head.
Adele looked up, but did not answer. Her singularly beautiful face, in which the softness of childhood still blended with woman’s firmer outlines, was pale and very sad. Mrs. Dainty, whose nerves were still all ajar, felt something like awe steal into her heart as she looked upon the countenance which was upturned to hers.
Just then Uncle John, whose anxiety about the young stranger would not permit him to await the return of his niece, entered the room. His face brightened as he saw Adele.
“Ah, my brave girl, you are here. We were afraid you had left the house,” he said, encouragingly.
Adele arose, and stood, with timid, downcast look, before Mrs. Dainty and Mr. Fleetwood.
“We owe you more than thanks,” said the latter. “The service you have rendered us is beyond all price. How shall we repay the obligation?”
Adele raised her dark eyes and looked steadily into the face of Mr. Fleetwood. There was a strange depth and beauty in those eyes, and something mournful and pleading. Mr. Fleetwood felt their appeal.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Adele,” replied the girl.