A pang struck to the honest hearts of Timothy Crump and his wife. Ida must leave them. After all the happy years during which they had watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length.
Just then, an elegantly-dressed lady appeared at the threshold. Smiling, radiant with happiness, Mrs. Clifton seemed, to the cooper's family, almost a being from another sphere.
“Mother,” said Ida, taking her hand, and leading her to Mrs. Crump, “this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me and loved me so well.”
“Mrs. Crump,” said Mrs. Clifton, “how can I ever thank you for your care of my child?”
My child!
It was hard for Mrs. Crump to hear another speak of Ida in this way.
“I have tried to do my duty by her,” she said, simply; “I love her so much.”
“Yes,” said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little huskily, “we all love her as if she was our own. She has been so long with us that we have come to think of her as our own, and—and it won't be easy at first to give her up.”
“My friend,” said Mrs. Clifton, “think not that I shall ever ask you to make that sacrifice. I shall always think of Ida as only a little less yours than mine.”
“But you live in Philadelphia. We shall lose sight of her.”