Accordingly, in Mrs. Terry's company, the two girls left Waterloo Station. She walked down a somewhat narrow side-street, crossed another, and they presently found themselves in a little, old-fashioned square. The square was very old indeed, belonging to quite a dead-and-gone period of the world. The woman stopped at a house which once had been large and stately; doubtless in days gone by it had sheltered goodly personages and had listened to the laughter of the rich and well-to-do; but in its old age the house was let out in tenements, and Mrs. Terry owned a couple of rooms at the very top.
She took the girls up the dirty stairs, opened the door of a not uncomfortable sitting room, and ushered them in.
“There now, honeys,” she said; “the best I can do for you both is the sofa for one and my bed for the other.”
“No, no,” said Nora, “we would not dream of taking your bed; and, for that matter, I could not sleep,” she added. “If you will let me have a couple of chairs I shall lie down on them and wait as best I can until the morning. Oh, I have often done it at home and thought it great fun.”
“Well, you must each have a bit of supper first; it don't do for young girls to go to bed hungry, more particularly when they have a journey before them. I'll get you some bread and cheese and a glass of milk each—unless, indeed, you would prefer beer?”
“Oh, no, we would much rather have milk,” said Molly.
The woman bustled about, and soon came in with a jug of milk, a couple of glasses, some bread, and some indifferent butter.
“You can have the cheese if you really want it,” she said.
“No; this will do beautifully,” answered Nora.
“Well then, my dears, I'll leave you now for the night. The lamp will burn all night. It will be lonely for young girls to be in the dark; and I'll promise to call you at five o'clock. There's a train leaves Euston between six and seven that you had better catch, unless you want them as is hindering you from flight to stop you. I am interested in this poor young lady who wants to see her father.”