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Mrs. Overtheway laughed, too, at Ida’s rambling account, and the two were in high good-humour.

“What shall I do to amuse you?” asked the little old lady.

“You couldn’t tell me another story?” said Ida, with an accent that meant, “I hope you can!”

“I would, gladly, my dear, but I don’t know what to tell you about;” and she looked round the room as if there were stories in the furniture which perhaps there were. Ida’s eyes followed her, and then she remembered the picture, and said:

“Oh! would you please tell me what the writing means under that pretty little sketch?”

The little old lady smiled rather sadly, and looked at the sketch in silence for a few moments. Then she said:

“It is Russian, my dear. Their letters are different from ours. The words are ‘Reka Dom’ and they mean ‘River House.'”

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.”

Ida crept to the little old lady’s feet, and softly stroked the slipper that rested on the fender. Then, while the March wind howled beyond the curtains, she made herself a cosy corner by the fire, and composed herself to hear the story.

“I remember,” said Mrs. Overtheway. “I remember Reka Dom. It was our new home.

“Circumstances had made it necessary that we should change our residence, and the new home was to be in a certain quiet little town, not much bigger than some big villages–a town of pebble streets and small shops, silent, sunny, and rather dull–on the banks of a river.

“My health at this time was far from robust; but there is compensation even for being delicate in that spring-time of youth, when the want of physical strength is most irksome. If evening parties are forbidden, and long walks impossible, the fragile member of the family is, on the other hand, the first to be considered in the matter of small comforts, or when there is an opportunity for ‘change of air.’ I experienced this on the occasion when our new home was chosen. It had been announced to us that our father and mother were going away for one night, and that we were to be very good in the absence of those authorized keepers of the peace. We had not failed ourselves to enlarge this information by the discovery that they were going to the little town by the river, to choose the house that was to be our home; but it was not till the night before their departure that I was told that I was to go with them. I had been unusually drooping, and it was supposed that the expedition would revive me. My own joy was unbounded, and that of my brothers and sisters was hardly less. They were generously glad for my sake, and they were glad, also, that one of the nursery conclave should be on the spot when the great choice was made. We had a shrewd suspicion that in the selection of a house our elders would be mainly influenced by questions of healthy situation, due drainage, good water supply, moderate rent, and so forth; to the neglect of more important considerations, such as odd corners for hide-and-seek, deep window-seats, plenty of cupboards, and a garden adapted to the construction of bowers rather than to the cultivation of vegetables. I do not think my hopes of influencing the parental decision were great; but still we all felt that it was well that I should be there, and my importance swelled with every piece of advice I received from the rest of the party.