Still regarding Ida, he tore open the envelope. At the sight of the writing he, not exactly started, but moved his head rather suddenly, and again turned his eyes upon the messenger.
“Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair. The room was an uncomfortable office, with no fire. He himself took a seat deliberately at a desk, whence he could watch Ida, and began to read. As he did so, his face remained unmoved, but he looked away occasionally, as if to reflect.
“What’s your name?” he asked, when he had finished, beginning, at the same time, to tear the letter into very small pieces, which he threw into a waste-paper basket.
“Ida, sir,—Ida Starr.”
“Starr, eh?” He looked at her very keenly, and, still looking, and still tearing up the letter, went on in a hard, unmodulated voice.
“Well, Ida Starr, it seems your mother wants to put you in the way of earning your living.” The child looked up in fear and astonishment.
“You can carry a message? You’ll say to your mother that I’ll undertake to do what I can for you, on
