he knew nothing of their change of
circumstances. On his way home he had in Paris met with Harry Graham,
who had been his classmate, and who now won from him a promise that on
his return to America he would visit his parents, in S----. He did so,
and there, as we have seen, met with Ada Harcourt, whose face, voice,
and manner reminded him so strangely of the Ada he had known years
before, and whom he had never forgotten.

As the reader will have supposed, the sewing-woman whose daughter
Lucy Dayton so heartily despised was none other than Mrs. Linwood, of
New Haven, who had taken her husband's first name in order to avoid
the persecutions of Uncle Israel. The day following the party St. Leon
spent in making inquiries concerning Mrs. Harcourt, and the
information thus obtained determined him to start at once for New
Haven, in order to ascertain if his suspicions are correct.

The result of his journey we already know. Still he resolved not to
make himself known immediately, but to wait until he satisfied himself
that Ada was as good as beautiful. And then?

A few more chapters will tell us what then.

CHAPTER VII.

A MANEUVER.

The gray twilight of a cold December afternoon was creeping over the
village of S----, when Ada Harcourt left her seat by the window,
where, the livelong day, she had sat stitching till her heart was sick
and her eyes were dim. On the faded calico lounge near the fire lay
Mrs. Harcourt, who for several days had been unable to work on account
of a severe cold which seemed to have settled in her face and eyes.

"There," said Ada, as she brushed from her gingham apron the bits of
thread and shreds of cotton, "there, it is done at last, and now
before it is quite dark I will take it home."

"No, not to-night," said Mrs. Harcourt; "to-morrow will do just as
well."

"But, mother," answered Ada, "you know Mrs. Dayton always pays as soon
as the work is delivered, and what I have finished will come to two
dollars and a half, which will last a long time, and we shall not be
obliged to take any from the sum laid by to pay our rent; besides, you
have had nothing nourishing for a long time; so let me go, and on my
way home I will buy you something nice for supper."

Mrs. Harcourt said no more, but the tears fell from her aching eyes as
she thought how hard her daughter was obliged to labor, now that she
was unable to assist her. In a moment Ada was in the street. The
little alley in which