“Oh, I feel that bad!  If I get over this, I’ll give it up—­God help me, I will!  I’ll get my living honest, if there’s any way.  I never felt so bad as I do now.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed the woman.  “Wait a bit till you get rid of your sore throat, and you’ll think different.  Poorly people gets all sorts o’ fancies.  Keep a bit quiet now, and don’t put yourself out so.”

“What are we to do?  I’ve only got a few shillings—­”

“Well, you’ll have money again some time, I suppose.  You don’t suppose I’ll turn you out in the streets?  Write to Fred on Monday, and he’ll send you something.”

They talked till Lotty exhausted herself again, then Ida was allowed to re-enter the room.  Mrs. Ledward kept coming and going till her own bed-time, giving what help and comfort she could in her hard, half-indifferent way.  Another night passed, and in the morning Lotty seemed a little better.  Her throat was not so painful, but she breathed with difficulty, and had a cough.  Ida sat holding her mother’s hand.  It was a sunny morning, and the bells of neighbouring churches began to ring out clearly on the frosty air.

“Ida,” said the sick woman, raising herself suddenly, “get me some note-paper and an envelope out of the box; and go and borrow pen and ink, there’s a good child.”

The materials were procured, and, with a great effort, Lotty managed to arrange herself so as to be able to write.  She covered four pages with a sad scrawl, closed the envelope, and was about to direct it, but paused.

“The bells have stopped,” she said, listening.  “It’s half-past eleven.  Put on your things, Ida.”

The child obeyed, wondering.

“Give me my purse out of the drawer.  See, there’s a shilling.  Now, say this after me:  Mr. Abra’m Woodstock, Number—­, St. John Street Road.”

Ida repeated the address.

“Now, listen, Ida.  You put this letter in your pocket; you go down into the Mary’bone road; you ask for a ’bus to the Angel.  When you get to the Angel, you ask your way to Number—­, St. John Street Road; it isn’t far off.  Knock at the door, and ask if Mr. Abra’m Woodstock is in.  If he is, say you want to see him, and then give him this letter,—­into his own hands, and nobody else’s.  If he isn’t in, ask when he will be, and, if it won’t be long, wait.”

Ida promised, and then, after a long gaze, her mother dropped back again on the pillow, and turned her face away.  A cough shook her for a few moments.  Ida waited.

“Well, ain’t you gone?” asked Lotty faintly.

“Kiss me, mother.”

They held each other in a passionate embrace, and then the child went away.

She reached Islington without difficulty, and among the bustling and loitering crowd which obstructs the corner at the Angel, found some one to direct her to the street she sought.  She had to walk some distance down St. John Street Road, in the direction of the City, before discovering the house she desired to find.  When she reached it, it proved to be a very dingy tenement, the ground-floor apparently used as offices; a much-worn plate on the door exhibited the name of the gentleman to whom her visit was, with his professional description added.  Mr. Woodstock was an accountant.