because I was so interested, and he accidentally tore off the
name to light his cigar, so I forgot it entirely. What shall I call you,
please?"

Adah was tempted to answer her at once, "Adah Hastings"--it seemed so
wrong to impose in any way on that frank, sweet woman; but she
remembered Mrs. Worthington's injunction, and for her sake she
refrained, keeping silent a moment, and then breaking out impetuously:
"Please, Miss Richards, don't ask my real name, for I'd rather not give
it now. I will tell you of the past, though I did not ever mean to do
that; but something about you makes me know I can trust you." And then,
amid a shower of tears, in which Anna's, too, were mingled, Adah told
her sad story.

"But why do you wish to conceal?" she asked, after Adah had finished.
"Is there any reason?"

"At first there was none in particular, save a fancy I had, but there
came one afterward--the request of one who had been, kind to me as a
dear mother. Is it wrong not to tell the whole?"

"I think not. You have dealt honestly with me so far, but what shall I
call you? You must have a name."

"Oh, may I stay?" Adah asked eagerly, forgetting her late terror of
'Lina.

"Of course you may. Did you think I would turn you away?" was Anna's
reply; and laying her head upon the white counterpane of the bed, Adah
cried passionately; not a wild, bitter cry, but a delicious kind of cry
which did her good, even though her whole frame quivered and her low,
choking sobs fell distinctly on Anna's ear.

"Poor child!" the latter said, laying her soft hand on the bowed head.
"You have suffered much, but with me you shall find rest. I want you for
a companion, rather than a maid. I, too, have had my heart troubles;
not like yours, but heavy enough to make me wish I could die."

It was seldom that Anna alluded to herself in this way, and to do so to
a stranger was utterly foreign to the Richards' nature. But Anna could
not help it. There was something about Adah which interested her
greatly. She could not wholly shield her from her mother's and sisters'
pride, but she would do what she could.

"Oh, pride, pride," she whispered to herself, "of how much pain hast
thou been the cause."

Pride had sent her Charlie over the sea without her; pride had separated
her brother from the Lily she was sure he loved, as he could never love
the maiden to whom he was betrothed; and pride, it seemed, had been at
the root of all this young girl's sorrow.