protect me.  And so it went on, till, what with fear of him, and fear of her, and misery and weariness, I resolved to go away, become of me what might.  One night, instead of undressing for bed as usual, I told Jane—­that was the daughter—­that I couldn’t bear it any longer, and was going away, as soon as I thought the house was quiet.  She looked at me in astonishment, and asked me if I had anywhere to go to.  Will you believe that I said yes, I had?  I suppose I spoke in a way which didn’t encourage her to ask questions; she only lay down on the bed and cried as usual.  “Jane,” I said, in a little, “if I were you, I’d run away as well.”  “I will,” she cried out, starting up, “I will this very night!  We’ll go out together.”  It was my turn to ask her if she had anywhere to go to.  She said she knew a girl who lived in a good home at Tottenham, and who’d do something for her, she thought.  At any rate she’d rather go to the workhouse than stay where she was.  So, about one o’clock, we both crept out by a back way, and ran into Edgware Road.  There we said good-bye, and she went one way, and I another.

“All that night I walked about, for fear of being noticed loitering by a policeman.  When it was morning, I had come round to Hyde Park, and, though it was terribly cold—­just in March—­I went to sleep on a seat.  I woke about ten o’clock, and walked off into the town, seeking a poor part, where I thought it more likely I might find something to do.  Of course I asked first of all at eating-houses, but no one wanted me.  It was nearly dark, and I hadn’t tasted anything.  Then I begged of one or two people—­I forgot everything but my hunger—­and they gave me a few coppers.  I bought some bread, and still wandered about.  There are some streets into which I can never bear to go now; the thought of walking about them eight years ago is too terrible to me.  Well, I walked till midnight, and then could stand up no longer.  I found myself in a dirty little street where the house doors stood open all night; I went into one, and walked up as far as the first landing, and there fell down in a corner and slept all night.”

“Poor child!” said Waymark, looking into her face, which had become very animated as the details of the story succeeded each other in her mind.

“I must have looked a terrible little savage on that next morning,” Ida went on, smiling sadly.  “Oh, how hungry I was!  I was awoke by a woman who came out of one of the rooms, and I asked her if she’d give me something to eat.  She said she would, if I’d light her fire for her, and clean up the grate.  I did this, gladly enough.  Then she pretended I had done it badly, and gave me one miserable little dry crust, and told me to be off.  Well, that day I found another woman who said she’d give me one meal and twopence a day for helping her to chop wood and wash vegetables; she had a son who was a costermonger, and the stuff he sold had to be cleaned each day.  I took the work gladly.  She never asked me where I spent the night; the truth was I chose a different house each night, where I found the door open, and went up and slept on the stairs.  I often found several people doing the same thing, and no one disturbed us.