They meant more than she could ever say to
another, however close and dear to her. The secret of her mother's
life lay in the grave and in her own mind; the one would render it
up as soon as the other. For never would Ida tell in words of that
moment when there had come to her maturing intelligence clear
insight into her mother's history, when the fables of childhood had
no longer availed to blind her, and every recalled circumstance
pointed but to one miserable truth.
"She's happier than we are," Waymark said solemnly. "Think how long
she has been resting."
Ida became silent, and presently spoke with a firmer voice.
"They took her to a hospital in her last illness, and she died
there. I don't know where her grave is."
"And what became of you? Had you friends to go to?"
"No one; I was quite alone.--We had been living in lodgings. The
landlady told me that of course I couldn't stay on there; she
couldn't afford to keep me; I must go and find a home somewhere. Try
and think what that meant to me. I was so young and ignorant that
such an idea as that I might one day have to earn my own living had
never entered my mind. I was fed and clothed like every one else,--
a good deal better, indeed, than some of the children at school,--
and I didn't know why it shouldn't always be so.
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