They did a good deal of shopping, of one sort or another, and then Mrs. Hartwell-Jones gave the chauffeur a direction that made him stare. It brought the tears to Letty’s eyes suddenly and a great lump to her throat.
Far down-town they drove, out of the range of stylishly equipped carriages and motor cars; out of the range of big shops and smooth streets. The pavement grew rougher and dirtier, the houses and small shops that lined the street, shabbier and shabbier.
Letty leaned forward out of the carriage window, her eyes large, curious, almost frightened, fixed on each familiar spot as it was passed. She clasped her hands tightly together and drew her breath in short, audible inspirations.
“Ah, there is the house, there it is!” she exclaimed at length, and Mrs. Hartwell-Jones gave the signal to stop.
The cab came to a halt at the curb, the motor continuing to throb with an even, businesslike regularity.
The little motor inside Letty’s small body was throbbing too, wildly, now fast and now slow, as she gazed at the shabby, dingy house that had been her home. It looked shabbier and dingier than ever, and there were neither fresh muslin curtains nor blooming plants at the third-story front windows where her mother used to sit and sew.
No familiar faces were to be seen. Several people went in and out of the front door, turning to stare curiously at the lady and little girl sitting in the motor car. But Letty had never seen any of them before. There were children playing on the door-step next door, but they were not Emma Haines nor Tottie. It all seemed completely changed.
“Oh, dear!” sighed Letty.
Then she turned and threw herself into Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s outstretched arms.
“My mother, my mother!” she sobbed. “How I want my mother!”