e possible. From her chamber, where
she goes only to arrange her hair and to wipe off an angry tear or two,
she walks straight into the study of the parson.

"Doctor," (the "New Papa" is reserved for her tenderer or playful
moments now,) "are you quite sure that papa will come for me in the
spring?"

"He writes me so, Adaly. Why?"

Adele seeks to control herself, but she cannot wholly. "It's not
pleasant for me any longer here, New Papa,--indeed it is not";--and her
voice breaks utterly.

"But, Adaly!--child!" says the Doctor, closing his book.

"It's wholly different from what it once was; it's irksome to Miss
Eliza,--I know it is; it's irksome to me. I want to leave. Why doesn't
papa come for me at once? Why shouldn't he? What is this mystery, New
Papa? Will you not tell me?"--and she comes toward him, and lays her
hand upon his shoulder in her old winning, fond way. "Why may I not
know? Do you think I am not brave to bear whatever must some day be
known? What if my poor mother be unworthy? I can love her! I can love
her!"

"Ah, Adaly," said the parson, "whatever may have been her unworthiness,
it can never afflict you more; I believe that she is in her grave,
Adaly."

Adele sunk upon her knees, with her hands clasped as if in prayer. Was
it strange that the child should pray for the mother she had never seen?

From the day when Maverick had declared her unworthiness, Adele had
cherished secretly the hope of some day meeting her, of winning her by
her love, of clasping her arms about her neck and whispering in her ear,
"God is good, and we are all God's children!" But in her grave! Well, at
least justice will be done her then; and, calmed by this thought, Adele
is herself once more,--earnest as ever to break away from the scathing
looks of the spinster.

The Doctor has not spoken without authority, since Maverick, in his
reply to the parson's suggestions respecting marriage, has urged that
the party was totally unfit, to a degree of which the parson himself was
a witness, and by further hints had served fully to identify, in the
mind of the old gentleman, poor Madame Arles with the mother of Adele. A
knowledge of this fact had grievously wounded the Doctor; he could not
cease to recall the austerity with which he had debarred the poor woman
all intercourse with Adele upon her sick-bed. And it seemed to him a
grave thing, wherever sin might lie, thus to alienate the mother and
daughter. His unwitting agency