The Unclassed | Page 9

upon the pillows, and the resemblance was as
strong as could exist between two people of such different ages: the
same rich-brown hair, the same strongly-pencilled eye-brows; the
deep-set and very dark eyes, the fine lips, the somewhat prominent
jaw-bones, alike in both. The mother was twenty-eight, the daughter
ten, yet the face on the pillow was the more childish at present. In the
mother's eyes was a helpless look, a gaze of unintelligent misery, such
as one could not conceive on Ida's countenance; her lips, too, were
weakly parted, and seemed trembling to a sob, whilst sorrow only made
the child close hers the firmer. In the one case a pallor not merely of
present illness, but that wasting whiteness which is only seen on faces
accustomed to borrow artificial hues; in the other, a healthy pearl-tint,
the gleamings and gradations of a perfect complexion. The one a child
long lost on weary, woful ways, knowing, yet untaught by, the misery
of desolation; the other a child still standing upon the misty threshold
of unknown lands, looking around for guidance, yet already half feeling
that the sole guide and comforter was within.
It was strange that talk which followed between mother and daughter.
Lotty Starr (that was the name of the elder child, and it became her
much better than any more matronly appellation), would not remain
silent, in spite of the efforts it cost her to speak, and her conversation
ran on the most trivial topics. Except at occasional moments, she spoke
to Ida as to one of her own age, with curious neglect of the relationship
between them; at times she gave herself up to the luxury of feeling like
an infant dependent on another's care; and cried just for the pleasure of
being petted and consoled. Ida had made up her mind to leave her
disclosure till the next morning; impossible to grieve her mother with
such shocking news when she was so poorly. Yet the little girl with
difficulty kept a cheerful countenance; as often as a moment's silence
left her to her own reflections she was reminded of the heaviness of
heart which made speaking an effort. To bear up under the secret
thought of her crime and its consequences required in Ida Starr a
courage different alike in quality and degree from that of which
children are ordinarily capable. One compensation alone helped her; it
was still early in the evening, and she knew there were before her long
hours to be spent by her mother's side.

"Do you like me to be with you, mother?" she asked, when a timid
question had at length elicited assurance of this joy. "Does it make you
feel better?"
"Yes, yes. But it's my throat, and you can't make that better; I only wish
you could. But you are a comfort to me, for all that; I don't know what I
should do without you. Oh, I sha'n't be able to speak a word soon, I
sha'n't!"
"Don't, don't talk, dear. I'll talk instead, and you listen. Don't you think,
mother dear, I could--could always sleep with you? I wouldn't disturb
you; indeed, indeed I wouldn't! You don't know how quiet I lie. If I'm
wakeful ever I seem to have such a lot to think about, and I lie so still
and quiet, you can't think. I never wake Mrs. Led ward, indeed. Do let
me, mother; just try me!"
Lotty broke out into passionate weeping, wrung her hands, and hid her
face in the pillow. Ida was terrified, and exerted every effort to console
this strange grief. The outburst only endured a minute or two, however;
then a mood of vexed impatience grew out of the anguish and despair,
and Lotty pushed away the child fretfully.
"I've often told you, you can't, you mustn't bother me. There, there; you
don't mean any harm, but you put me out, bothering me, Ida. Tell me,
what do you think about when you lay awake? Don't you think you'd
give anything to get off to sleep again? I know I do; I can't bear to think;
it makes my head ache so."
"Oh, I like it. Sometimes I think over what I've been reading, in the
animal book, and the geography-book; and--and then I begin my
wishing-thoughts. And oh, I've such lots of wishing-thoughts, you
couldn't believe!"
"And what are the wishing-thoughts about?" inquired the mother, in a
matter-of-fact way.
"I often wish I was grown up. I feel tired of being a child; I want to be a
woman. Then I should know so much more, and I should be able to
understand all the things you tell me I can't now. I don't care for
playing at games and going to school."
"You'll be a woman