MOTHER AND CHILD

Ida Starr, dismissed by the schoolmistress, ran quickly homewards. She
was unusually late, and her mother would be anxious. Still, when she
came within sight of the door, she stopped and stood panting. How
should she tell of her disgrace? It was not fear that made her shrink
from repeating Miss Rutherford's message; nor yet shame, though she
would gladly have hidden herself away somewhere in the dark from every
eye; her overwhelming concern was for the pain she knew she was going
to cause one who had always cherished her with faultless
tenderness,--tenderness which it had become her nature to repay with a
child's unreflecting devotion.

Her home was in Milton Street. On the front-door was a brass-plate
which bore the inscription: "Mrs. Ledward, Dressmaker;" in the window
of the ground-floor was a large card announcing that "Apartments" were
vacant. The only light was one which appeared in the top storey, and
there Ida knew that her mother was waiting for her, with tea ready on
the table as usual. Mrs. Starr was seldom at home during the child's
dinner-hour, and Ida had not seen her at all to-day. For it was only
occasionally that she shared her mother's bedroom; it was the rule for
her to sleep with Mrs. Ledward, the landlady, who was a widow and
without children. The arrangement had held ever since Ida could
remember; when she had become old enough to ask for an explanation of
this, among other singularities in their mode of life, she was told
that her mother slept badly, and must have the bed to herself.

But the night had come on, and every moment of delay doubtless
increased the anxiety she was causing. Ida went up to the door, stood
on tiptoe to reach the knocker, and gave her usual two distinct raps.
Mrs. Ledward opened the door to her in person; a large woman, with
pressed lips and eyes that squinted very badly; attired, however,
neatly, and looking as good-natured as a woman who was at once landlady
and dressmaker could be expected to look.

"How 's 't you're so late?" she asked, without looking at the child;
her eyes, as far as one could guess, fixed upon the houses opposite,
her hands in the little pocket on each side of her apron. "Your
mother's poorly."

"Oh, then I shall sleep with her to-night?" exclaimed Ida, forgetting
her trouble for the moment in this happy foresight.

"Dessay," returned Mrs. Ledward laconically.

Ida left her still standing in the doorway, and ran stairs