,
on Thursday night."

"They've found out about me at the school," gasped Lotty, with a
despairing look, "and Ida's got sent away."

"She has? Well, never mind, you can find another, I suppose. I can't
see myself what she wants with so much schoolin', but I suppose you
know best about your own affairs."

"Oh, I feel that bad! If I get over this, I'll give it up--God help me,
I will! I'll get my living honest, if there's any way. I never felt so
bad as I do now."

"Pooh!" exclaimed the woman. "Wait a bit till you get rid of your sore
throat, and you'll think different. Poorly people gets all sorts o'
fancies. Keep a bit quiet now, and don't put yourself out so."

"What are we to do? I've only got a few shillings--"

"Well, you'll have money again some time, I suppose. You don't suppose
I'll turn you out in the streets? Write to Fred on Monday, and he'll
send you something."

They talked till Lotty exhausted herself again, then Ida was allowed to
re-enter the room. Mrs. Ledward kept coming and going till her own
bed-time, giving what help and comfort she could in her hard,
half-indifferent way. Another night passed, and in the morning Lotty
seemed a little better. Her throat was not so painful, but she breathed
with difficulty, and had a cough. Ida sat holding her mother's hand. It
was a sunny morning, and the bells of neighbouring churches began to
ring out clearly on the frosty air.

"Ida," said the sick woman, raising herself suddenly, "get me some
note-paper and an envelope out of the box; and go and borrow pen and
ink, there's a good child."

The materials were procured, and, with a great effort, Lotty managed to
arrange herself so as to be able to write. She covered four pages with
a sad scrawl, closed the envelope, and was about to direct it, but
paused.

"The bells have stopped," she said, listening. "It's half-past eleven.
Put on your things, Ida."

The child obeyed, wondering.

"Give me my purse out of the drawer. See, there's a shilling. Now, say
this after me: Mr. Abra'm Woodstock, Number--, St. John Street Road."

Ida repeated the address.

"Now, listen, Ida. You put this letter in your pocket; you go down into
the Mary'bone road; you ask for a 'bus to the Angel. When you get to
the Angel, you ask your way to Number--, St. John Street Road; it isn't
far off. Knock at the door, and ask if Mr. Abra'm Woodstock is in. If
he is, say you want to see him, and then give him this letter,--into
his