“Yes, I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt.”
Mr. John Somerville entered the room, and for the first time in eight years his glance fell upon the child whom, for so long a time, he had defrauded of a mother's care and tenderness.
Ida returned to the window.
“How beautiful she is!” thought Somerville, with surprise. “She inherits all her mother's rare beauty.”
On the table beside Ida was a drawing.
“Whose is this?” he inquired.
“Mine,” answered Ida.
“So you have learned to draw?”
“A little,” answered the child, modestly.
“Who taught you? Not the woman you live with?”