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!”