Silence came upon them again.

In the same district, in one of a row of semi-detached houses
standing in gardens, lived Ida's little friend, Maud Enderby, with
her aunt, Miss Bygrave, a lady of forty-two or forty-three. The
rooms were small and dark; the furniture sparse, old-fashioned, and
much worn; there were no ornaments in any of the rooms, with the
exception of a few pictures representing the saddest incidents in
the life of Christ. On entering the front door you were oppressed by
the chill, damp atmosphere, and by a certain unnatural stillness.
The stairs were not carpeted, but stained a dark colour; a footfall
upon them, however light, echoed strangely as if from empty chambers
above. There was no sign of lack of repair; perfect order and
cleanliness wherever the eye penetrated; yet the general effect was
an unspeakable desolation.

Maud Enderby, on reaching home after her meeting with Ida, entered
the front parlour, and sat down in silence near the window, where
faint daylight yet glimmered. The room was without fire. Over the
mantelpiece hung an engraving of the Crucifixion; on the opposite
wall were the Agony in the Garden, and an Entombment; all after old
masters. The centre table, a few chairs, and a small sideboard were
the sole articles of furniture. The table was spread with a white
cloth; upon it were a loaf of bread, a pitcher containing milk, two
plates, and two glasses.

Maud sat in the cold room for a quarter of an hour; it became quite
dark. Then was heard a soft footstep descending the stairs; the door
opened, and a lady came in, bearing a lighted lamp, which she stood