Mrs. Overtheways Remembrances | Page 6

dress!"
Ida looked, but her tears were falling much too fast for her to have a
clear view of anything, and the torn edges of the rent seemed fringed
with prismatic colours.
To crown all she was sent to bed. In reality, this was to save the
necessity of wearing her best frock till the other was mended, and also
to keep her warm in case she should have caught cold; but Nurse spoke
of it as a punishment, and Ida wept accordingly. And this was a
triumph of that not uncommon line of nursery policy which consists in
elaborately misleading the infant mind for good.
Chim! chime! went the bells next morning, and Mrs. Overtheway came
down the white steps and through the green gate with a bunch of
primroses in her hand. She looked up as usual, but not to the sky. She
looked to the windows of the houses over the way, as if she expected
some one to be looking for her. There was no face to be seen, however;
and in the house directly opposite, one of the upper blinds was drawn
down. Ida was ill.
How long she was ill, and of what was the matter with her, Ida had no
very clear idea. She had visions of toiling through the wood over and
over again, looking vainly for something that could never be found; of
being suddenly surrounded and cut off by swollen streams; and of
crawling, unclean beasts with preternatural feelers who got into her
boots. Then these heavy dreams cleared away in part, and the stream
seemed to ripple like the sound of church bells, and these chimed out
the old tune
"Quite through the streets, with silver sound," &c.
And then, at last, she awoke one fine morning to hear the sweet
chim-chiming of the church bells, and to see Nurse sitting by her
bedside. She lay still for a few moments to make quite sure, and then
asked in a voice so faint that it surprised herself:

"Has Mrs. Overtheway gone to church?"
On which, to her great astonishment, Nurse burst into tears. For this
was the first reasonable sentence that poor Ida had spoken for several
days.
To be very ill is not pleasant; but the slow process of getting back
strength is often less pleasant still. One afternoon Ida knelt in her old
place at the window. She was up, but might not go out, and this was a
great grief. The day had been provokingly fine, and even now, though
the sun was setting, it seemed inclined to make a fresh start, so bright
was the rejuvenated glow with which it shone upon the opposite houses,
and threw a mystic glory over Mrs. Overtheway's white steps and green
railings. Oh! how Ida had wished to go out that afternoon! How long
and clear the shadows were! It seemed to Ida that whoever was free to
go into the open air could have nothing more to desire. "Out of doors"
looked like Paradise to the drooping little maid, and the passers-by
seemed to go up and down the sunny street in a golden dream. Ida
gazed till the shadows lengthened, and crept over the street and up the
houses; till the sunlight died upon the railings, and then upon the steps,
and at last lingered for half an hour in bright patches among the
chimney-stacks, and then went out altogether, and left the world in
shade.
Twilight came on and Ida sat by the fire, which rose into importance
now that the sunshine was gone; and, moreover, spring evenings are
cold.
Ida felt desolate, and, on the whole, rather ill-used. Nurse had not been
upstairs for hours, and though she had promised real tea and toast this
evening, there were no signs of either as yet. The poor child felt too
weak to play, and reading made her eyes ache. If only there were some
one to tell her a story.
It grew dark, and then steps came outside the door, and a fumbling with
the lock which made Ida nervous.
"Do come in, Nursey!" she cried.

The door opened, and someone spoke; but the voice was not the voice
of Nurse. It was a sweet, clear, gentle voice; musical, though no longer
young; such a voice as one seldom hears and never forgets, which came
out of the darkness, saying:
"It is not Nurse, my dear; she is making the tea, and gave me leave to
come up alone. I am Mrs. Overtheway."
And there in the firelight stood the little old lady, as she has been
before described, except that instead of her Prayer-book she carried a
large pot hyacinth in her two hands.
"I have brought you one of my pets, my dear," said she. "I