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 own hands, and nobody else's. If he
isn't in, ask when he will be, and, if it won't be long, wait."

Ida promised, and then, after a long gaze, her mother dropped back
again on the pillow, and turned her face away. A cough shook her for
a few moments. Ida waited.

"Well, ain't you gone?" asked Lotty faintly.

"Kiss me, mother."

They held each other in a passionate embrace, and then the child
went away.

She reached Islington without difficulty, and among the bustling and
loitering crowd which obstructs the corner at the Angel, found some
one to direct her to the street she sought. She had to walk some
distance down St. John Street Road, in the direction of the City,
before discovering the house she desired to find. When she reached
it, it proved to be a very dingy tenement, the ground-floor
apparently used as offices; a much-worn plate on the door exhibited
the name of the gentleman to whom her visit was, with his
professional description added. Mr. Woodstock was an accountant.

She rang the bell, and a girl appeared. Yes, Mr. Woodstock was at
home. Ida was told to enter the passage, and wait.