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