Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life

When Ida was ready to start, there came over all a little shadow of depression, as if the child were to be separated from them for a year, and not for a day only. Perhaps this was only natural, since even this latter term, however brief, was longer than they had been parted from her since, an infant, she was left at their door.

The nurse expressly desired that none of the family should accompany her, as she declared it highly important that the whereabouts of Ida’s mother should not be known at once. “Of course,” she said, “after Ida returns, she can tell you what she pleases. Then it will be of no consequence, for her mother will be gone. She does not live in this neighborhood; she has only come here to have an interview with Ida.”

“Shall you bring her back to-night?” asked Mrs. Crump.

“I may keep her till to-morrow,” said the nurse. “After eight years’ absence, that will seem short enough.”

To this, Mrs. Crump agreed, but thought that it would seem long to her, she had been so accustomed to have Ida present at meals.

The nurse walked as far as Broadway, holding Ida by the hand.

“Where are we going?” asked the child, timidly. “Are we going to walk all the way?”

“No,” said the nurse, “we shall ride. There is an omnibus coming now. We will get into it.”

She beckoned to the driver who stopped his horse. Ida and her companion got in.

They got out at the Jersey City ferry.

“Did you ever ride in a steamboat?” asked Mrs. Hardwick, in a tone intended to be gracious.

“Once or twice,” said Ida. “I went with brother Jack once, over to Hoboken. Are we going there, now?”

“No, we are going over to the city, you can see over the water.”

“What is it? Is it Brooklyn?”

“No, it is Jersey City.”

“Oh, that will be pleasant,” said Ida, forgetting, in her childish love of novelty, the repugnance with which the nurse had inspired her.

“Yes, and that is not all; we are going still further,” said the nurse.

“Are we going further?” asked Ida, her eyes sparkling. “Where are we going?”

“To a town on the line of the railroad.”

“And shall we ride in the cars?” asked the child, with animation.

“Yes, didn’t you ever ride in the cars before?”

“No, never.”

“I think you will like it.”

“Oh, I know I shall. How fast do the cars go?”

“Oh, a good many miles an hour,—maybe thirty.”

“And how long will it take us to go to the place you are going to carry me to!”

“I don’t know exactly,—perhaps two hours.”

“Two whole hours in the cars!” exclaimed Ida. “How much I shall have to tell father and Jack when I get back.”

“So you will,” said Mrs. Hardwick, with an unaccountable smile, “when you get back.”

There was something peculiar in her tone as she pronounced these last words, but Ida did not notice it.

So Ida, despite her company, actually enjoyed, in her bright anticipation, a keen sense of pleasure.

“Are we most there?” she asked, after riding about two hours.

“It won’t be long,” said the nurse.

“We must have come ever so many miles,” said Ida.

An hour passed. She amused herself by gazing out of the car windows at the towns which seemed to flit by. At length, both Ida and her nurse became hungry.

The nurse beckoned to her side a boy who was going through the cars selling apples and seed-cakes, and inquired their price.

“The apples are two cents apiece, ma’am, and the cakes a cent apiece.”

Ida, who had been looking out of the window, turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, in great astonishment; “Why, William Fitts, is that you?”

“Why, Ida, where did you come from?” asked the boy, his surprise equalling her own.

The nurse bit her lips in vexation at this unexpected recognition.

“I’m making a little journey with her,” indicating Mrs. Hardwick.

“So you’re going to Philadelphia,” said the boy.

“To Philadelphia!” said Ida, in surprise. “Not that I know of.”

“Why, you’re most there now.”

“Are we, Mrs. Hardwick?” asked Ida, looking in her companion’s face.

“It isn’t far from there where we’re going,” said the nurse, shortly. “Boy, I’ll take two of your apples and four seed-cakes. And now you’d better go along, for there’s somebody by the stove that looks as if he wanted to buy of you.”

William looked back as if he would like to question Ida farther, but her companion looked forbidding, and he passed on reluctantly.

“Who is that boy?” asked the nurse, abruptly.

“His name is William Fitts.”

“Where did you get acquainted with him?”