at certain cross-ways, Mr. Woodstock paused. His eyes were turned
downwards; he did not seem dubious of his way, so much as in
hesitation as to a choice of directions. He took a few steps hither,
then back; began to wend thither, and again turned. When he at
length decided, his road brought him to Milton Street, and up to the
door on which stood the name of Mrs. Ledward.

He knocked loudly, and the landlady herself opened.

"A Mrs. Starr lived here, I believe?" he asked.

"She does live here, sir, but she's in the orspital at present, I'm
sorry to say."

"Is her child at home?"

"She is, sir."

"Let me see her, will you? In some room, if you please."

Mrs. Ledward's squinting eyes took shrewd stock of this gentleman,
and, with much politeness, she showed him into her own parlour. Then
she summoned Ida from upstairs, and, the door being closed upon the
two, she held her ear as closely as possible to the keyhole.

Ida recognised her visitor with a start, and drew back a little.
There were both fear and dislike in her face, fear perhaps
predominating.

"You remember coming to see me," said Mr. Woodstock, looking down