knowing, yet untaught by, the misery of desolation; the other a
child still standing upon the misty threshold of unknown lands,
looking around for guidance, yet already half feeling that the sole
guide and comforter was within.

It was strange that talk which followed between mother and daughter.
Lotty Starr (that was the name of the elder child, and it became her
much better than any more matronly appellation), would not remain
silent, in spite of the efforts it cost her to speak, and her
conversation ran on the most trivial topics. Except at occasional
moments, she spoke to Ida as to one of her own age, with curious
neglect of the relationship between them; at times she gave herself
up to the luxury of feeling like an infant dependent on another's
care; and cried just for the pleasure of being petted and consoled.
Ida had made up her mind to leave her disclosure till the next
morning; impossible to grieve her mother with such shocking news
when she was so poorly. Yet the little girl with difficulty kept a
cheerful countenance; as often as a moment's silence left her to her
own reflections she was reminded of the heaviness of heart which
made speaking an effort. To bear up under the secret thought of her
crime and its consequences required in Ida Starr a courage different
alike in quality and degree from that of which children are
ordinarily capable. One compensation alone helped her; it was still
early in the evening, and she knew there were before her long hours
to be spent by her mother's side.

"Do you like me to be with you, mother?" she asked, when a timid
question had at length elicited assurance of this joy. "Does it make
you feel better?"