his ingenuity came to his relief at length.
"No, Adaly, your father does not write cheerfully,—certainly not; he speaks of the probable loss of his fortune."
Now Adèle, with her parsonage training, had really very little idea of fortune.
"That means I won't be rich, New Papa, I suppose. But I don't believe it; he will have money enough, I'm sure. It don't disturb me, New Papa,—not one whit."
The Doctor was so poor a hand at duplicity that he hardly knew what to say, but meantime was keeping his eye with the same dazed look upon the charming Adèle.
"You look so oddly, New Papa,—indeed you do! You have some sermon in your head, now haven't you, that I have broken in upon?—some sermon about—about—let us see."
And she moved toward his desk, where the letter of Maverick still lay unfolded.
The Doctor, lost in thought, did not observe her movement until she had the letter fairly in her hand; then he seized it with a suddenness of gesture that instantly caught the attention of Adèle.
A swift, deep color ran over her face.
"It is for my eye only, Adaly," said the Doctor, excitedly, folding it and placing it in his pocket.
Adèle, with her curiosity strangely piqued, said,—
"I remember now, papa told me as much."
"What did he tell you, my child?"
"Not to be too curious about some business affairs of which he had written you."
"Ah!" said the Doctor, with a sigh of relief.
"But why shouldn't I be? Tell me, New Papa," (toying now with the silvered hair upon the forehead of the old gentleman,) "is he really in trouble?"
"No new trouble, my child,—no new trouble."
For a moment Adèle's thought flashed upon that mystery of the mother she had never seen, and an uncontrollable sadness came over her.
"Yet if there be bad news, why shouldn't I know it?" said she. "I must know it some day."
"'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" said the Doctor, gravely. "And if bad news should ever come to you, my dear Adaly,—though I have none to tell you now,—may you have strength to bear it like a Christian!"
"I will! I can!" said she, with a great glow upon her face.
Never more than in that moment had the heart of the old gentleman warmed toward Adèle. Not by any possibility could he make himself the willing instrument of punishing the sin of the father through this trustful and confiding girl. Nay, he felt, as he looked upon her, that he could gladly make of himself a shelter for her against such contempt or neglect as the world might have in store.
When Reuben came presently to summon Adèle to their evening engagement at the Elderkins', the Doctor followed their retreating figures, as they strolled out of the parsonage-gate, with a new and strange interest. Most inscrutable and perplexing was the fact, that this outcast child, whom scarce one in his parish would have been willing to admit to the familiarities of home,—this daughter of infidel France, about whose mind the traditions of the Babylonish harlot had so long lingered,—who had never known motherly counsel or a father's reproof,—that she, with the stain of heathenism upon her skirts, should have grown into the possession of such a holy, placid, and joyous trust. And there was his poor son beside her, the child of so many hopes, reared, as it were, under the very droppings of the altar, still wandering befogged in the mazes of error, if, indeed, he were not in his secret heart a scoffer. Now that such a result was wholly impracticable and impossible, it did occur to him that perhaps no helpmeet for Reuben could so surely guide him in the way of truth. But of any perplexity of judgment on
