For the first time since her husband's death, Ada slept soundly, till deep in the morning. But her slumber was haunted by dreams that sent shadows painful and death-like over her beautiful face. More than once her maid stole from the dressing-room into the rosy twilight of the bed-chamber, and stooped anxiously over her mistress as she slept, for the faint moans that broke from her lips, pallid even in that rich light, and parted with a sort of painful smile—startled the servant as she prepared her mistress's toilet.

It was almost mid-day when this unearthly slumber passed off, but the brightest sun could only fill those richly draped chambers with a twilight atmosphere, that allowed the sleeper to glide dreamily from her couch to the pursuits of life. When the mechanics throughout the city were at their noonday meal, Ada crept into her dressing-room, pale and languid as if she had just risen from a sick-bed. Upon a little ebony table near the fire, a breakfast service of frosted silver, and the most delicate SÈvres china stood ready. Ada sunk into the great easy-chair, which stood near it, cushioned with blossom-colored damask, which gleamed through an over drapery of heavy point lace. The maid came in with chocolate, snowy little rolls, just from the hands of her French cook, and two crystal dishes, the one stained through with the ruby tint of some rich foreign jelly, the other amber-hued with the golden honeycomb that lay within it. Delicate butter, moulded like a handful of strawberries, lay in a crystal grape-leaf in one corner of the salver, and a soft steam floated from the small chocolate urn, veiling the whole with a gossamer cloud.

Altogether, that luxurious room, the repast so delicate, but evidently her ordinary breakfast; the lady herself in all the beautiful disarray of a muslin wrapper, half hidden, half exposed by the loosely knotted silk cord that confined a dressing-gown, quilted and lined with soft white silk—all this composed a picture of the most sumptuous enjoyment. But look in that woman's face! See the dark circles beneath those heavy violet eyes. Mark how languidly that mouth uncloses, when she turns to speak. See the nervous start which she makes when the crystal and silver jar against each other, as the maid places them upon the table. Is there not something in all this that would make the rudest mechanic pause, before he consented to exchange the comforts won by his honest toil, for the splendor that seemed so tempting at the first glance?

Ada broke a roll in two, allowed one of the golden strawberries to melt away in its fragments, then laid it down untasted. Her heart was sick, her appetite gone, and after drinking one cup of the chocolate, she turned half loathing from that exquisite repast.

"Move the things away!" she said, to the waiting-woman.

"Will madam chose nothing else?" said the servant, hesitating and looking back as she carried off the tray.

"Nothing," replied her mistress.

The tone was one that forbade further inquiry; so the maid left the apartment; and Ada was alone, restless, feverish, unhappy.

She rose, and walking to the window, looked out; but a few minutes spent thus appeared to tire her; and throwing herself again into her chair, she took up a book and attempted to read. But she still found no occupation for her thoughts. At last she flung down the volume, and rising, paced the chamber.

The reflection grew and grew upon her, that if the old man should be convicted of the murder, she would be free from the guilt of Leicester's death. Her mind had been in a morbid condition ever since that event, or she would not now have thought this, nor have before regarded herself as criminal. That the old man should be proved guilty, became an insane wish on her part. She clutched at it with despairing hope. The more she thought of this means of escape from her remorse, the wilder became her desire to see the prisoner convicted. Soon the belief in his criminality became as fixed in her mind as the persuasion of her own existence.

A stern, passionate desire for revenge now took possession of her. The very idea that the accused might yet escape, through some technicality, drove her almost to madness; and as she conjured up this picture, her eyes flashed like those of an angry tigress, and the workings of her countenance betrayed the tumult of her soul.

At last, catching the reflection of her person in a mirror, she started at her wild appearance; a bitter smile passed over her face, and she said—

"Why do I seek this old man's blood? Am I crazed, or a woman no longer? But heaven knows," she added, clasping her forehead with her hands, "that I have endured enough to transform me out of humanity."

With a heavy movement she rang the bell, ordered her maid to dress her, and directed the carriage to be in waiting.

When Ada Leicester descended to her carriage, radiant in majestic beauty, the last thought that would have presented itself to a spectator must have been that this queenly woman was unhappy. But the color in her cheek; the blaze of her brilliant eyes; and the proud, almost disdainful step with which she crossed the sidewalk, were deceptive as the fever of disease. The excitement which so increased her lofty beauty, was purchased with inexpressible pangs, as the hues of the dying dolphin are procured by intolerable anguish.

The day was bright; the breeze was fresh; everything around was beautiful and exhilarating. But the pleasant face of nature failed to allay the fever of Ada Leicester's soul. One thought only possessed her; "What if the old man should be acquitted?" This idea grew upon her, and still grew. She tried to shake it off. She endeavored to become interested in the equipages driving past on the Bloomingdale road, and failing there, turned her heavy eyes on the green fields along the North River, or the sailing vessels ploughing up and down its water. But it was all in vain; Ada had no interest in anything so quiet as those scenes.

That dark thought clung to her. Now it rose into a terror, and a new idea crossed her mind. If the murderer should escape, and her husband be unavenged, would not her guilt be then almost as great as if she had driven Leicester to suicide?

Everything became a blank around her; she was only conscious of this one thought. She saw nothing, heard nothing; for her entire soul was absorbed in one morbid idea. It became a monomania. Finally she pulled the check string, and, in a sharp tone, directed the coachman to drive back to the city.

The man looked around, startled by her voice; he was alarmed at the aspect of her countenance, which was almost livid. She did not notice it, but closed the curtain, and threw herself back on the cushions.

This terror was visible in his look. As they entered the city, the coachman asked if he should drive home.

This roused her from her stupor. A distance of five miles had been traversed since she had last spoken, yet the interval appeared to her scarcely a minute. She looked out with surprise. Recognizing the place, she pulled the check-string and directed the servant to drive to the office of an advocate, renowned, especially in criminal cases, for his acute cross-examinations, not less than for his eloquence.

The lawyer was at home when the carriage drew up at his door. He knew Ada Leicester as a leading star in society, and was surprised to see her enter his office so abruptly. He rose, bowed profoundly, and handed her a chair.

His visitor hesitated a moment, and then said,

"There is a man now in prison, charged with the murder of one William Leicester—you know the case, perhaps—and I have called on you to make it impossible for the prisoner to escape unless he is really innocent." She uttered these last words slowly, with her eye fixed on the advocate as she spoke.

"There is such a thing, I believe, as the friends of a guilty man securing legal assistance when the commonwealth proves lax or indifferent."

"Oh! yes, madam," said the lawyer. "The thing is of common occurrence."

"Very well," said Ada, slowly, taking a note of large value from her porte-monnaie. "I wish you to see the district-attorney, and assist him in this trial."

"You would retain me—I understand your wish," said the lawyer, too polite to touch the note which she laid before him, yet unable to prevent a glance at its denomination; and bowing again profoundly, as his visitor rose to go, he continued, "the guilty man shall not escape, madam."

Ada Leicester drove home with a lighter heart, feeling as if a great duty had been discharged.