to his throbbing heart, murmured hoarsely:

"I loved Eliza once, though she would not believe it."

Then the image of the young man and the girl came up before him, making
him start again, for he guessed that man was Hugh, his stepson, while
the girl--oh, could that beautiful creature--be--his--daughter!

"Not Adaline, assuredly," he whispered, "nor Adah, my poor darling Adah.
Oh, where is she this morning? I did love Adah," and the convict
moistened Eliza Worthington's handkerchief with the tears he shed for
sweet Adah Hastings.

Outwardly, that day the so-called Sullivan was the same, as he paced up
and down the walk, but never since first he began the weary march, had
his brain been the seat of thoughts so tumultuous as those stirring
within him, the day succeeding Mrs. Worthington's visit. Where were his
victims now? Were they all alive? And would he meet them yet? Would
Eliza Worthington ever come there again, or Hugh, and would he see them
if they did? Perhaps not, but some time, a few months hence, he would
find them, would find Hugh at least, and ask if he knew aught of
Adah--Adah, more terribly wronged than even the wife had been.

And while he thus resolved, poor Mrs. Worthington at home moved
nervously around the house, casting uneasy glances backward, forward,
and sideways, as if she were expecting some goblin shape to rise
suddenly before her and claim her for its own. They were wretched,
uneasy days which followed that visit to Frankfort--days of racking
headache to Mrs. Worthington, and days of anxious thought to Hugh, who
thus was led in a measure to forget the pain he would otherwise have
felt at the memory of Alice's refusal.

CHAPTER XXXII

ADAH AT TERRACE HILL

The next morning was cold and frosty, as winter mornings in New England
are wont to be, and Adah, accustomed to the more genial climate of
Kentucky, shivered involuntarily as from her uncurtained window she
looked out upon the bare woods and the frozen fields covered with the
snow of yesterday.

Across the track, near to a dilapidated board fence, a family carriage
was standing, the driver unnecessarily, as it seemed to Adah--holding
the heads of the horses, who neither sheered nor jumped, nor gave other
tokens that they feared the hissing engine. She had not seen that
carriage when it drove up before the door, nor yet the young man who had
alighted from it; but as she stood there, a loud laugh reached her ear,
making her st