Ida gazed at the drawing with increased interest.
"Oh, do you remember anything about it? If you would tell me about that!" she cried.
But Mrs. Overtheway was silent again. She was looking down, and twisting some of the rings upon her little hand, and Ida felt ashamed of having asked.
"I beg your pardon," she said, imploringly. "I was very rude, dear Mrs. Overtheway; tell me what you like, please."
"You are a good child," said the little old lady, "a very good child, my dear. I do remember so much about that house, that I fall into day-dreams when I look at it. It brings back the memories of a great deal of pleasure and a great deal of pain. But it is one advantage of being old, little Ida, that Time softens the painful remembrances, and leaves us the happy ones, which grow clearer every day."
"Is it about yourself?" Ida asked, timidly. She had not quite understood the little old lady's speech; indeed, she did not understand many things that Mrs. Overtheway said, but they were very satisfactory companions for all that.
"Yes, it is about myself. And since there is a dear child who cares about old Mrs. Overtheway, and her prosy stories, and all that befell her long ago," said the little old lady, smiling affectionately at Ida, "I will tell her the story—my story—the story of Reka Dom."
"Oh, how good of you!" cried Ida.
"There is not much merit in it," said the little old lady. "The story is as much for myself as you. I tell myself bits of it every evening after tea, more so now than I used to do. I look far back, and I endeavour to look far forward. I try to picture a greater happiness, and companionship more perfect than any I have known; and when I shall be able to realize them, I shall have found a better Home than Reka Dom."