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.