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.
But the night had come on, and every moment of delay doubtless
increased the anxiety she was causing. Ida went up to the door,
stood on tiptoe to reach the knocker, and gave her usual two
distinct raps. Mrs. Ledward opened the door to her in person; a
large woman, with pressed lips and eyes that squinted very badly;
attired, however, neatly, and looking as good-natured as a woman who
was at once landlady and dressmaker could be expected to look.
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