She drove direct from the London terminus to the house of her friend, Mrs. Wingate, in Maida Vale. Both Mrs. Wingate and her husband made Hermia as welcome as it was possible to make anyone. She explained to them the object of her journey as far as the delivery of the parcel was concerned, upon which Mr. Wingate kindly offered to keep her company on her errand, assuring her, after she had told him the address she wanted to go to, that the neighborhood in question was a very low one, being infested by loose characters of various kinds, and that a lady unattended--unless she were a Sister of Mercy, or a "visitor," and known to be such--could scarcely traverse it without the risk of being insulted, to say nothing of the further risk she would run of being hustled and robbed. On consideration, Hermia deemed it best to accept Mr. Wingate's offer. She had not mentioned Richard Varrell's name, and, bearing in mind her promise to his mother, she determined not to do so. Accordingly, they set out about six o'clock the following day, Mr. Wingate being of opinion that if the person Miss Rivers was in search of were in any kind of employment she would be more likely to find him at home in the evening than at any other time. Mr. Wingate had engaged a hansom, and after what had seemed to Hermia an interminable ride, but which was none the less strange and fascinating to her untutored eyes on that account, they were set down opposite a church having a spire so tall and stately that if it could have been transplanted to the flat country about Ashdown it would have served as a landmark for miles around. After skirting the churchyard and leaving behind all the main thoroughfares of traffic, they found themselves in a maze of streets, courts and alleys, the like of which Hermia had never dreamed of before and never wished to see again. The farther they penetrated, the more squalid and mean became their surroundings. The whole neighborhood swarmed with life--but such life! Could Hermia ever forget the dream of baleful faces which passed like a procession before her that evening; some scowling and sinister, some leering, some with an ape-like grin upon them, and others verging on the vacancy of an idiot's, with here and there one bearing the impress of a wickedness so unfathomable that the girl could but shudder and veil her eyes? "But the children--oh, my dears, the little children!" as she said afterwards, when recounting her experience to Uncle John and Aunt Charlotte, her blue eyes flushed with tears. "It was simply heartrending to see them and to feel and know that I could do nothing for them."