"No, never back again--never. I waited so long, waited till I almost
thought I heard my baby cry, and then went home; but baby was gone.
Alice, do you hear me?--baby was gone;" and the poor, mumbling creature,
rocking to and fro, buried her bony fingers in Alice's fair hair.
"Poor Densie! poor auntie!" was all Alice said, as she regarded with
horror the man, who went on: "Yes, baby was gone--gone to my mother's, in a part of the city where
there was no probability of its being found and I was gone, too. You are
shocked, fair maiden, and well you may be," the convict said.
"In course of time there was a daughter born to me and to Eliza; a sweet
little, brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, whom we named Adaline."
Instinctively every one in that room glanced at the black eyes and hair
of 'Lina, marveling at the change.
"I loved this little girl, as it was natural I should, more than I loved
the other, whose mother was a servant. Besides that, she was not so
deeply branded as the other; see--" and pushing back the thick locks
from his forehead, he disclosed his birthmark, while 'Lina suddenly put
her hand where she knew there was another like it.
"At last there came a separation. Eliza would not live with me longer
and I went away, but pined so for my child that I contrived to steal
her, and carried her to my mother, where was the other one. 'Twas there
you tracked me, Densie. You came one day, enacting a fearful scene, and
frightening my children until they fled in terror and hid away from your
sight."
"I remember, I remember now. That's where I heard the name," 'Lina said,
while the convict continued: "I said you were a mad woman. I made mother believe it; but she never
recovered from the shock, and six weeks after your visit, I was alone
with my two girls, Densie and Adaline. I could not attend to them both,
and so I sent one to Eliza and kept the other myself, hiring a
housekeeper, and to prevent being dogged by Densie again, I passed as
Mr. Monroe Gordon, guardian to the little child whom I loved so much."
"That was Adah," fell in the whisper from the doctor's lips, but caught
the ear of no one.
All were too intent upon the story, which proceeded: "She grew, and grew in beauty, my fair, lovely child, and I was
wondrously proud of her, giving her every advantage in my power. I sent
her to the best of schools, and even looked forward to the day when she
should take the position she was so well fitted to fill. After she was
grown to girlhood we boarded, she as the ward, I as the guardian still,
and then one unlucky day I stumbled upon you, Dr. John, but not until
you had first stumbled upon my daughter, and been charmed with her
beauty, passing yourself as some one else--as George Hastings, I
believe--lest your fashionable associates should know how the
aristocratic Dr. Richards was in love with a poor, unknown orphan,
boarding up two flights of stairs."