She remained in this condition for nearly two hours, Malleville in her bed sleeping all the time quietly too. When Malleville went to sleep, she did so resolving not to wake up for her medicine. She did not resolve not to take it, if any one else waked her up for it, but she determined not to wake up for it of her own accord. Whether this had any influence in prolonging her sleep it would be difficult to say. She did, however, sleep very soundly, and without changing her position at all, until a little after eleven o'clock, when she began to move her head and her arms a little, and presently she opened her eyes.

She looked around the room and saw nobody. The light was burning, though rather dimly, and the fire had nearly gone out. She sat up in the bed, and after a few minutes' pause, she said in a gentle voice, as if speaking to herself:

'I wish there was somebody here to give me a drink of water.' Then, after waiting for a moment, she added, 'but I can just as well get down and find it myself.'

So saying, she climbed down from the bed, and put on her shoes and stockings, singing gently all the time, 'Peep! peep! chippeda dee!'

This was all of Agnes's song that she could remember.

She went toward the fire, wondering who had drawn out the sofa and what for, and on passing round before it, her wonder was changed into amazement at finding Hepzibah asleep upon it.

'Why,' she exclaimed, in a very low and gentle tone, just above a whisper, 'here is Hepzibah. I suppose she is sitting up to watch with me. How tired she is.'

She stood looking at Hepzibah a minute or two in silence, and then said, speaking in the same tone and manner as before:

'She is not comfortable. I mean to put her feet upon the sofa.'

So saying, Malleville stooped down, and clasping Hepzibah's feet with both her arms, she lifted them up as gently as she could, and put them upon the sofa. Hepzibah's sound sleep was not at all disturbed by this. In fact, her position being now much more easy than before, she sank away soon into a slumber deeper and more profound than ever.

Malleville, finding that her first attempt to render Hepzibah a service was so successful, immediately began to feel a strong interest in taking care of her, and, observing that her feet were not very well covered as she lay upon the sofa, she thought it would be a good plan to go and find something to cover them up. So she went to a bureau which was standing in the room, and began to open one drawer after another, in search of a small blanket which was sometimes used for such a purpose. She found the blanket at length in the lowermost drawer of the bureau.

'Ah! here it is,' said she. 'I knew it was somewhere in this bureau.'

Saying this, she took out the blanket, and carried it to the sofa, doing everything in as noiseless a manner as possible. She spread the blanket over Hepzibah's feet, tucking the edges under very gently and carefully all around.

'Now,' said Malleville to herself, 'I will make up the fire a little, so that she shall not catch cold.'

There were two sticks remaining of those which Beechnut had brought up, and they were lying upon the carpet by the side of the fire, near the rocking-chair in which Beechnut had rocked Malleville to sleep. The wood which had been put upon the fire had burned entirely down, nothing being left of them but a few brands in the corners. Malleville took up the two sticks, one after another, and laid them upon the andirons, one for a back-stick and the other for a fore-stick, as she had often seen Phonny do. She then brought up a little cricket in front of the andirons, and sitting down upon it there, she took the tongs and began to pick up the brands and coals, and to put them into the interstice which was left between the two sticks. She did all this in a very noiseless and gentle manner, so as not to disturb Hepzibah; and she stopped very frequently to look round and see if Hepzibah was still sleeping.

The air soon began to draw up through the coals which Malleville had placed between the sticks of wood, and thus fanning them, it brightened them into a glow. The brands began to smoke, and presently there appeared in one part a small flickering flame.

'There!' said Malleville, in a tone of great satisfaction, 'it is burning. Phonny said that I could not make a fire, but I knew that I could.'

Malleville had been very careful all the time not to allow her night-dress to get near the fire, and now, as the fire was beginning to burn, she thought that she must move still further away. She accordingly rose, and moved the cricket back. The fire burned more and more brightly, and Malleville observed that the light of it was flashing upon Hepzibah's face.

'I must make a screen for her,' said she, 'or the flashes will wake her up.'

So she went to the bureau again, and brought forth a shawl, one which she had often seen her aunt Henry use for this purpose. Then, putting a chair between the sofa and the fire, she spread the shawl upon the back of it, and found that it produced the effect of keeping the flashes of light from Hepzibah's face entirely to her satisfaction.

Malleville then began to wonder whether it was not time for her to take her medicine. She looked at the clock, to see if she could tell what o'clock it was. She could not, of course, for she had never learned to tell the time by the clock. Accordingly, after looking at the hands and figures a few minutes in silence, and listening to the ticking, she said:

'I cannot tell what o'clock it is, but it looks pretty late. I have a great mind to take my medicine myself.'

She then turned to the table, where the lamp and the medicines were standing. The cup was there in which Hepzibah had prepared Malleville's medicine. Malleville took it up, looked at it, and stirred it a little with the spoon.

'I wonder if this is my medicine,' said she. 'I have a great mind to take it. But, then perhaps, it is not my medicine. Perhaps it is poison.'

So she put the cup down upon the table again, glad, in fact, of a plausible excuse for not taking the draught.

'I'll sit down in this rocking-chair,' he said, 'and wait till Hepzibah wakes up. She will wake up pretty soon.'

So she went to the rocking-chair and sat down. She began to rock herself to and fro, watching the little flames and the curling smoke that were ascending from the fire. She remained thus for nearly a quarter of an hour, and then she began to be a little tired.

'What a long night!' said she. 'I did not know that nights were so long. I wish that Hepzibah would wake up. But I suppose she is very tired. I mean to go and look out of the window, and see if the morning is not coming. Beechnut said that we could always see it coming in the east, at the end of the night.'

Malleville did not know which the east was, but she thought she would at any rate go and look out of the window. She accordingly went to the window, and pushing the curtains aside and opening the shutters, she looked out. She saw the moon in the sky, and several stars, but there were no appearances of morning.

There was a bronze ink-stand upon the table near the window, and some pens upon it. The idea occurred to Malleville that perhaps she might write a little while, to occupy the time till Hepzibah should wake up.

'If I only had some paper,' said she, 'I would write a letter to Agnes.'

Malleville carried the lamp now to the table by the window, and taking great care to put it down in a place where it would not be at all in danger of setting fire to the curtain, she took the pen and began her writing. She worked patiently upon the task for half an hour. The letter was then completed. Of course, it is impossible to give any idea in a printed book of the appearance of the writing, but the letter itself, as Malleville intended to express it, was as follows:

Wednesday, midnight.

'DEAR AGNES,

'I like you because Beechnut says you like me. Please to answer this letter.

'Your affectionate friend,

M.

Malleville only wrote M. instead of her whole name, Malleville, at the bottom of her letter, because, just as she was finishing her work, the lamp began to burn very dim. She was afraid that it was going out. So she stopped with the M., saying to herself that Agnes would know who it was from, and, besides, if she did not, Beechnut could tell her when he gave it to her. She folded the note and slipped it into the envelope, and then, hastily wetting a wafer, which she found in a small compartment in the centre of the bronze ink-stand, she put it in its place, and pressed down the flap of the envelope upon it. She then took the lamp and went to find a pin to prick up the wick a little, to keep it from going out.

She could not find any pin, and the lamp burned more and more dimly.

'I must go downstairs and find another lamp,' said Malleville, 'or else Hepzibah will be left all in the dark.'

She turned and looked towards Hepzibah a moment as she said this, and then added, 'Poor Hepzibah! How tired she must be to sleep so long.'

She then took the lamp and walked softly out of the room. The stairs creaked a little as she descended, though she stepped as carefully as she could. When she reached the kitchen door, she found it shut. She opened it and went in.

The kitchen was pretty warm, as there had been a fire in it all the day, although the fire was now all covered up in the ashes. The andirons were standing one across the other upon the hearth, idle and useless. Malleville looked about the room for a lamp, but she did not see any. The kitchen was in perfect order, everything being put properly away in its place.

'I will look into the closets,' said Malleville.

So she opened a closet door and looked in. There were various articles on the shelves, but no lamps. She then shut this door, and opened another closet door at the back of the room. Here Malleville found four lamps standing in a row upon the second shelf. She was very much pleased to see them. She took one of them down and carried it to the kitchen table, and then lighted it by means of a lamp-lighter, which she obtained from a lamp-lighter case hanging up by the side of the fireplace. She then blew out her own lamp, and carrying it into the closet, she put it up upon the shelf in the place of the one which she had taken away.

On the lower shelf Malleville saw, much to her satisfaction, a plate of bread with some butter by the side of it. There was a little pitcher near, too, and Malleville, on looking into it, found that it was half full of milk.

'I am very glad that I have found this,' said she, 'for now I can have some supper. I wanted something, and I could not tell what. I know now. I was hungry.'

She brought out the bread and butter and the milk to the kitchen table, and then drawing up a chair, she began to eat her supper, feeling a most excellent appetite.

She went on very prosperously for a time, having eaten two slices of bread and drank nearly all the milk, when suddenly her attention was arrested by a movement at the head of the kitchen stairs. These stairs ascended from very near the door where Malleville had entered the kitchen, and as Malleville had left the door open, the light from her lamp shone out into the entry, and she could also, while in the kitchen, hear any sound upon the stairs. The sound which attracted her attention was like that of a person opening a door and coming out. Malleville immediately stopped drinking from her pitcher and listened.

'Who is that down in the kitchen?' said a voice. Malleville immediately recognised the voice as that of Beechnut.

'I,' said Malleville.

'I?' repeated Beechnut. 'Who do you mean? Is it Malleville.'

'Yes,' replied Malleville.

'Why, Malleville,' exclaimed Beechnut, in a tone of profound astonishment, 'what are you doing in the kitchen?'

'I am eating some supper,' said Malleville.

'But, Malleville,' exclaimed Beechnut, 'you ought not to be down there eating supper at this time of night. How came you to go down?'

'Oh, I came down,' replied Malleville, 'to get a lamp for Hepzibah.'

'For Hepzibah!' repeated Beechnut. 'Did she send you down there for a lamp?'

'Oh, no,' said Malleville, 'I came myself.'

'Where is Hepzibah?' asked Beechnut.

'She is asleep,' said Malleville, 'and you must not speak so loud or you will wake her up.'

Malleville could now hear Beechnut laughing most immoderately, though evidently making great efforts to suppress the sound of his laughter. Presently he regained his composure in a sufficient degree to speak, and Malleville heard his voice again, calling:

'Malleville!'

'What?' said Malleville.

'Have you nearly finished your supper?' asked Beechnut.

'Yes,' replied Malleville. 'I have only got a little more milk to drink.'

'Well,' said Beechnut, 'when you have drank your milk, you had better go directly back to your room again, and get into bed and go to sleep.'

'And what shall I do with Hepzibah?' said Malleville.

'Where is Hepzibah?' asked Beechnut. 'Is she asleep in your room?'

'Yes,' replied Malleville.

'On the sofa?' asked Beechnut.

'Yes,' replied Malleville.

'Then leave her where she is,' replied Beechnut, 'and go to bed and go to sleep. If you do not get to sleep in half an hour, ring your bell, and I will dress myself, and come and see what to do.'

'Well,' said Malleville, 'I will.' So, taking her new lamp, she went upstairs again to her room. Hepzibah was sleeping as soundly as ever.

Malleville, in obedience to Beechnut's directions, after putting her lamp upon the stand, went directly to her bed and lay down. She shut her eyes to try to go to sleep, thinking of Beechnut's injunction to ring the bell if she did not get to sleep in half an hour, and wondering how she was to determine when the half hour would be ended. Long, however, before she had decided this perplexing question, she was fast asleep.

The next morning Hepzibah awoke at half-past five, which was her usual time of rising. She started up, amazed to find that it was morning, and that she had been asleep all night upon the sofa in Malleville's room. Her amazement was increased at finding her feet enveloped in a blanket, and a screen placed carefully between her face and the remains of the fire. She went hastily to Malleville's bedside, and finding that the little patient was there safe and well, she ran off to her own room, hoping that Phonny and Beechnut would never hear the story of her watching, and tell it to the men; for if they did, the men, she said to herself, would tease her almost to death about it.

When the doctor came the next morning, and they told him about Malleville's supper, he laughed very heartily, and said that food was better for convalescents than physic after all, and that, though patients often made very sad mistakes in taking their case into their own hands, yet he must admit that it proved sometimes that they could prescribe for themselves better than the doctor.



The Life and Adventures of Lady Anne

Chapter I

Of the first years of my life I have but a slight recollection, as I suddenly lost my mother by death, and was placed under the care of strangers soon after I had completed my fifth year. What passed before that time is like the faint remembrance of a long past dream, but it seemed to myself that I had lived among ladies and gentlemen—had been used to ride in a carriage, to be waited on by servants, who called me Lady Anne, and to be fondled by a lady and gentleman, who called me Annie, and their little darling, and whom I called father and mother. These pleasing visions seemed suddenly to pass away. I no longer saw my father, nor the ladies and gentlemen; we were no longer living in a large house; our servants were gone, and mother was almost always in tears. Then, all of a sudden, we were riding alone in a post-chaise; night came on, and we stopped at a house. There mother was very ill, and laid in bed, and did not speak to me for several days, and a great many people came and talked to her, but she did not answer any of them. At last I thought she was asleep, for her eyes were shut, and her hands were quite cold; then I wanted to get upon the bed that I might sit beside her, but the strange people that were there carried me out of the room, and teazed me with questions that I did not understand, or, if I had understood them, could not have answered for crying. After this two men came and put my mother into a large black box, and took her away.

These are painful remembrances, so sad and so painful that, at this distance of time, I cannot think of them without weeping.

What passed immediately after this I cannot remember, for I have been told that I had a violent fever, and was ill for a long time. Of all these things I have but a confused remembrance, yet I do remember them; but the time from which I can clearly recollect is from when I was about six years old, and from that period I remember every material circumstance of my life as clearly as if I had written them all down as they happened. I will now continue my narrative at the time from which I can correctly remember. I then found myself living in a large cottage with nearly twenty other children. We were under the care of an elderly woman, whom we called nurse. This house, I was told, when I was old enough to understand the meaning of the expression, was the place where the infant paupers, or poor children of the parish, were kept. Of our treatment there I have no cause to complain. We were well washed every morning, and our clothes were kept clean and tidy; our food was coarse and rather scanty, so that we always had a good appetite, yet we had sufficient to keep us in a good state of health, and the farmers' wives and cottage people who lived near would often give us pieces of bread and a little milk, so that, as I said before, we had no cause for complaint. Our nurse taught us reading and sewing, and, as she was rather a good-natured woman, she would frequently converse with us, if the prattle of children can be called conversation, and answer our little questions.

I must here make a digression to inform my young readers that, though I was a poor child, a mere pauper among a number of others who were not any poorer than myself, yet I was always treated with a great deal of respect both by the nurse and the other children. I was always called Lady Anne, and in all our little plays my companions would choose me to be a lady or their queen. Then I would, in a language which seemed natural to me, order the carriage for an airing, or propose a saunter in the park, or perhaps say we would go to the opera in the evening. The girls whom I admitted to the honour of visiting me I would address as ladies, and tell some of the others to come and say that 'Her ladyship's carriage was waiting,' or that 'Lady Sally's carriage stopped the way.' It was on one of these occasions that my nurse said to me:

'Ah, Lady Anne, it is a thousand pities that you are not among the lords and ladies you are so often talking about. It was an unlucky chance that brought you here, for, poor child, with us you are like a fish out of water.'

'What was it that brought me here?' said I. 'How did I come?'

'It is a long story to tell you,' replied she, 'but, as it is about yourself, you will not be tired of hearing it; so come, children, get your knitting and sit down, and you shall hear how Lady Anne came to live among us.'

In a few minutes we all had our knitting, and seated ourselves so as to form a semi- or half-circle round the good woman. Curiosity and expectation were painted in every countenance, myself the most curious and anxious of the whole group, for I often, in my own mind, wondered how it was that I no longer saw the gentlemen and ladies who it seemed to myself I had been in the habit of seeing, and where my father could be gone to, and why everything about me was so different to what it had once been. Our nurse having examined our work, and directed us how to go on with it, began her little narrative in the following manner:

'It will be two years on the twelfth of next November since one cold, wet evening, about eight o'clock, a lady, with a little girl that seemed about five years old, stopped at the Falcon Inn at E——. That lady was your mother, and that little girl was you, Lady Anne. Well, the chaise stopped, and your mother got out, and desired to be shown to a bedroom, and ordered tea, and tired and ill the landlady said she looked, but she did not know how very ill she really was. Well, after tea she put you to bed, and prepared to go herself, and she told the chambermaid to call her next morning at eight o'clock, for that, after breakfast, she intended to continue her journey. She ordered breakfast too, but, poor lady, when the morning came she was in a high fever.

'The good woman of the inn was terribly frightened, as you may suppose, at having a strange lady ill in her house, and not knowing whom she belonged to, nor whether she had money to pay her expenses, so she went to Mr. Sanders, our clergyman, to advise with him what was to be done. Then he went to the inn, and looked at your mother, and examined a little trunk, which was all the luggage she had. It contained just a change of linen for herself and you, and rather more than forty pounds in bank-notes and money, but no letters, nor any writing to tell who she was. The linen, both yours and your mother's, was marked A. M., and the trunk had the same letters in brass nails.

'Then the clergyman asked you your name; you said it was Lady Anne. Then he asked you your father's and mother's, and you said it was my lord and my lady, and that was all the answer he could get from you, for you did not know anything about a surname, and I must say I think it is a very foolish thing not to teach children their names and proper directions, for if you could have told yours, your friends would have been wrote to, and you would now have been with them, instead of being a poor little beggar in a workhouse; but I suppose, as your parents kept their carriage, they did not think there was any occasion that you should know your name and your direction; so much the worse for you.

'But to go on with my story. When Mr. Sanders asked your age, you said you were five years old, and that was all he could learn from you. Well, your mother was very ill, and did not know anything they asked her; she did not even know you, though you sat on the bed, by her, and did all you could to make her notice you, but it was all of no use, your poor mother could not notice anything. Then a doctor was sent for, and as soon as he came he said that the lady would die, but that he would do all in his power to save her, and so, I believe, he did, but it was all in vain, for on the third evening your mother died. The parish buried her very decently, for Mr. Sanders said that, as she had left money, she should not be buried like a pauper, and he would have taken you home and brought you up, but Madam Sanders said they had a large family of their own, and could not be burdened with other people's children, so you were sent to me, and I took all the care of you I could, for you had a bad fever, and were ill for a long time, and used to talk about lords and ladies, and would often say, if the earl would but forgive your father and mother you should all be very happy. When you grew better I asked you what earl you had been talking about, but you neither knew his name, nor what had been done to offend him.



'Mr. Sanders drew up an advertisement that was put into several newspapers, describing your mother and you, and telling of her coming to E——, and of her death, and begging her friends to come and take away the child, or it must otherwise be sent to the parish poor-house; but nobody ever sent or came, and the churchwardens would not allow any more money to be spent upon advertisements, for they said they must keep what was left to pay them for their care of you, as you were left upon their hands, and many people said they thought that you and your mother were only sham ladies, and that there was some trick in it, but, for my part, I always said that you and your mother were real ladies, and so thinks Mr. Sanders, for he says he does not know what trick there could be in a lady being taken ill and dying. He says he hopes to see the day when you will be restored to your friends, and he keeps the little trunk that your mother had, and the picture of a gentleman that she wore hung from her neck, and two rings; one, I suppose, was her wedding ring, the other is a very handsome one, and has hair in it and letters, and a great many little pearls, and the clergyman says it is worth a great deal of money, and that no sham lady could have such a handsome ring, and, besides all that, he keeps the clothes that you and your mother wore, that in case you should ever meet with your relations all these things may prove you are the same child that was lost, and not an impostor.'

Chapter II

Young as I was this relation of my nurse made me weep very much; it brought to my memory things which I had long thought must have been dreams. I well remembered my father's picture; I had seen my mother weep over it, press it to her lips, and address it by the name of her dear Frederick. I earnestly entreated the nurse to take me to the clergyman's, that I might once more have the pleasure of seeing it. She told me to have patience till Sunday, and that when service was over she would speak to him about it. I submitted to this delay without a murmur, and the following Sunday, when service was over, as he was walking through the churchyard, nurse went up to him and told him my request.

'Ah,' said he, looking at the little troop of children that followed the nurse, and immediately fixing his eyes upon me, 'I suppose this is the little lady. What is your name, my dear?'

'Lady Anne, sir,' replied I, curtseying very low. I must here observe that I did not know that lady was a title, but thought it was as much a part of my name as Anne.

'What, still Lady Anne?' said he. 'You are determined not to lose your title. Well, my little lady, come home with me and I will show you your father's picture.'

We then followed the clergyman to his house. The children were told to stay in the garden, with strict orders not to touch anything, and nurse and I were permitted the honour of entering the study. Mr. Sanders then, opening the drawer of a cabinet, took out the miniature portrait of a young and handsome gentleman dressed in regimentals. I no sooner beheld it than a thousand recollections seemed to rush upon my mind. I caught it from his hand, pressed it to my lips, and bursting into a flood of tears, exclaimed:

'It is my father's picture. My own, my dear father. Oh, if I could but see him! Where is he gone to? Do you know where he is gone to?'

'Be calm, my dear child,' said the good man, taking me in his arms. 'We do not know where your father is, or we would write to him. If you could tell us his name, we might find him out. Do you not remember any name they used to call your father?'

'They used to call father my lord; and mother my lady, and they called me Lady Anne,' said I.

'Ah! that is the old story, we know it already,' replied the clergyman with a sigh; 'but who, my dear, was the earl? Can you not recollect his name? Try if you cannot remember.'

'I do not know his name,' replied I, 'but he came one day and was very angry, and made mother cry, and then she fell on the floor and I screamed, and then the Earl was more angry and stamped, and I screamed with all my might, and the Earl rang the bell and went away in a great passion, and then Sally—yes, it was Sally—came to mother.'

'Where was your father, then, my dear?'

'I do not know, father was gone, and I have never seen him since.'

The good clergyman asked me many more questions, to try if he could discover who my friends were; but, as I unfortunately could not tell either my own name, or that of any of the great people who had visited us, his enquiries were fruitless, and he closed the conversation by observing, 'that it was a great pity I had not been taught my own name and address.'

* * * * *

[Lady Anne was then taken to an orphan home, where she was treated very harshly by Mrs. Dawson, the matron. Great fun was made of her grand name.]

* * * * *

At last a man and his wife, who had come down from London on a visit to a relation of theirs in the town, having heard of me, came to the school to make their inquiries. I was accordingly ordered to stand up, that they might satisfy their curiosity with gazing at me, while Mrs. Dawson began to boast of all the good qualities I possessed, and some to which I had no claim.

'She is a very delicate looking child,' said the woman from London; 'she looks more like a gentleman's daughter than a parish girl.'

'She is straight, and tall of her age, ma'am,' replied Mrs. Dawson, 'and that gives her a genteelish look; but I assure you she is as strong as a little horse. She will wash and scour with any girl of her age; and, as for her needle, there is not a girl in the school can work as well. Show your work, Lady Anne.'

'Lady Anne!' repeated the Londoner, as she took my work into her hand, 'that is a strange name. What do you call her so for?'

Mrs. Dawson ran over my story to her as briefly as she could. The two Londoners found it very diverting, and laughed heartily, while the tears stood in my eyes as I thought of my dear parents, one in the grave, and the other I might never see again.

'Well, wife,' said the man, when he had laughed till he was weary, 'suppose we take this young lady on trial for a month; the good woman speaks of her very well; we can but see what she can do, and, if we find her strong enough for our place, it will be a rare piece of luck for us to have an earl's daughter for our servant. What say you, aye or nay?'

'I have no objection to try her,' replied the wife. 'She sews very well, and that is the greatest object with us.'

'Very well, then,' returned the husband. 'Let us away to the overseers, and settle with them about taking her upon trial, for I will not have her as an apprentice till we know what she can do.'

They then went away, and, in about two hours, the one that I called the good-natured overseer came to tell Mrs. Dawson to have me in readiness to go to London on the morning after the morrow with my new master and mistress.

'And I hope, child,' said he, addressing me, 'that you will do all you can to please them, for I give you my word for it, that if you are sent back to us we shall send you to the Bridewell, where you will be kept to hard labour, and be whipped every day; so now you know what you have to trust to.'

I assured him very sincerely that I would do to the utmost of my power to please my master and mistress; and then I very humbly entreated his permission to allow me to go the next day to pay a farewell visit to Mr. Sanders and my nurse, Jenkins.

'Yes, child, you shall go. And mind, Dawson, that you let her go early, that she may find Mr. Sanders at home, for he made me promise that we would not send her away without first letting her call upon him. Good-bye, child, there is a penny for you to spend, and if you are a good girl you shall have a shilling for yourself when you are bound apprentice.'

I curtsied, thanked him, and renewed my promises of good behaviour. He then went away, and Mrs. Dawson told me to sit down to my work, for that too much time had been lost in talking.

Chapter III

The next morning I arose before it was well light. It was a cold morning in the month of February, and the snow was lying upon the ground; but my heart felt so light at the thought of escaping from the ill-temper of Mrs. Dawson, and the hope of being more comfortable, that everything appeared cheerful and pleasant. I made what haste I could to get my morning work done, and, having breakfasted, set off about nine o'clock on my little journey. The distance from the workhouse to Mr. Sanders's was rather more than two miles; but the sun was now shining, and the road hard and dry, and I tripped along so lightly that I was therein a little more than half an hour.

'Good-morning to you, my dear,' said the kind gentleman when he saw me; 'you seem in excellent spirits. Have you got a place?'

'Yes, sir,' I replied. 'I am to go to London to-morrow, and then, I hope, I shall find my father soon.'

'My poor child, I wish you may,' answered he; 'but do not raise your expectations too high, for fear you should be disappointed. What sort of people are you to be with, and what is it you are to do?'

I then related all that had passed the preceding day between Mrs. Dawson and the strangers.

'Well,' said Mr. Sanders, 'I will call this evening upon the overseers, and hear what they say of these people. I hope they are respectable, and will be kind to you; and, my dear child, pray remember my advice, be honest and obliging; do not let any temptation lead you to take what is not your own; and never give a saucy answer, even though you should be found fault with unjustly. Will you think of my advice, and act by it?'

'I will, indeed I will,' replied I. 'And now, sir, if you please, let me once more look at my father's picture, for, you know, when I am in London, I cannot come to you then to look at it.'

Mr. Sanders, taking it from the drawer, gave it into my hand. I gazed at it, pressed it to my lips, and wept over it; and, at last, when Mr. Sanders desired me to give it him back, I begged of him to let me take it with me to London.

'If you take it to London,' said he, 'you may, perhaps, lose it, or it may be taken from you. The picture is valuable on account of the gold and pearls about it, and may tempt bad people to steal it. You had much better leave it with me.'

'I will hide it so securely,' replied I, 'that nobody shall ever see it, or know that I have it.'

'How can you hide it, my dear?'

'I will hide it in my bosom; but I am going to Nurse Jenkins, and she will fasten it inside my stays, so that it cannot be seen, and people will not think that I have a picture. Do, pray, sir, let me have it.'

'Well,' said Mr. Sanders, after a little pause, in which he seemed to consider whether it would be safe to grant my request or not; 'I will entrust it to your care, but be sure never to let it be seen, nor to tell anyone that you have such a picture in your possession.'

Most fervently I promised to take every possible care of this beloved portrait, and was about to take my leave when Mr. Sanders said:

'Stay, my dear, here is sixpence for you.'

'No, thank you, sir,' said I. 'I have the sixpence you gave me when I left my nurse.'

'What! have you not spent that yet?'

'No, sir.'

'And why not, pray?'

'Because you gave it to me, sir, I shall never spend it.'

'Then you are keeping it for my sake, I suppose. Well, do so, my dear, but take this sixpence, and mind you spend it.'

I took it with a curtsey, and tried to say 'Good-bye,' but the words seemed to choke me, and I burst into tears. Mr. Sanders seemed much affected, and putting his handkerchief to his eyes, walked about the room for some minutes without speaking; then, again approaching me, he kissed my forehead.

'Farewell, my dear child,' said he. 'I wish it was in my power to keep you, but I have a large family, and Mrs. Sanders is not willing that I should take you in addition, so farewell, we must part; be a good girl, and I hope we shall meet again in happier circumstances.'

He then again kissed me, bestowed his benediction upon me, and led me to the gate. I sobbed out my farewell, and, with the tears streaming down my face, took my way to the humble dwelling of my nurse. I had nearly two miles to walk before I reached her cottage. At first I went along with a slow and deliberate step, thinking upon my parting with Mr. Sanders, and comparing my lot with that of children who had fathers and mothers, and weeping at my own destitute situation; for, even among the children who were in the workhouse, there was not one excepting myself who had not relations who came occasionally to see them, and to whom they looked up for some sort of protection, while I was a poor little outcast in society, not knowing one creature in the whole world to whom I could say I was related. Mr. Sanders and my nurse were the only persons who seemed to care anything about me; and even these, my only friends, I must leave, and go and live among strangers. These thoughts made me very melancholy, and, though this second part of my journey was the shortest, yet I was nearly an hour in walking it. At last I saw the cottage, and, quickening my pace, I arrived there tired and out of spirits.

The good woman received me kindly, and placing me near the fire, gave me a basin of broth, with plenty of bread in it. After I had taken this refreshment, which I greatly needed, she began asking me a variety of questions, and by degrees I gave her the history of all that had happened to me from the time I had left her house, for since that time I had never had an opportunity of saying more to her than a few words when we happened to meet at the church.

'Poor child,' said she, when I concluded, 'I was afraid you would not be comfortable, for Mrs. Dawson is a woman of a very bad temper; but she does make the girls good servants, that nobody can deny, and that, I suppose, is the reason she keeps her place; however, your time is over with her now, so never mind what is past, but look forward to what is to come. What sort of people are you going to live with?'

'I hardly know,' replied I; 'but their name is Smith, and they live in a place called the Borough.'

'Do you know what their trade is?'

'They sell umbrellas and shoes, and I am to learn to make the umbrellas, and that is all I know about them.'

'Well, my dear, I hope that you will be able to do for them, and that they will be kind to you, and you must trust to Providence for the discovery of your friends.'

I then drew my father's picture from my bosom, and asked her if she would fasten it into my stays in such a way that I could wear it without its being seen.

'Yes, my dear,' said she, 'that I will, and you must mind how I do it, that, when you have a new pair of stays, you may be able to fasten it into them in the same manner.'

My stays were then taken off, and the portrait fastened inside of them; a piece of flannel was then sewed over it, which, being left loose at one corner, I could, when I had them off, raise it up, and take a view of the dear likeness. The first sixpence that Mr. Sanders gave me I had fastened in also, for I was determined never to part with it. This being done I produced the sixpence he had given me that morning, and the penny given me by the overseer, and begged the nurse to accept of them.

'No, my dear,' said she, 'I will not take them from you; keep them yourself, you do not know what you may want when you are in London. You will not then have anybody to give you a halfpenny should you need it.'

'I will not keep it,' replied I. 'Mr. Sanders told me to spend it, and if you will not take it I shall leave it upon the table.'

'Well,' said she, 'if it must be spent, I will go and lay it out in tea and sugar, and give you all a treat, for I suppose you have not tasted any tea since you have been with Mrs. Dawson.'

'No,' said I, 'not a single drop. How glad I am that you have thought of letting us have tea.'

My young readers who, perhaps, have tea every day, cannot imagine what a luxury a little of it is to a poor workhouse child, who never tastes it but when she is allowed to go out and see her friends. Children in workhouses have bread and cheese and small-beer about seven o'clock, which serves them for tea and supper, and I, as I had no friends to go and see, had not once tasted tea since I left my nurse's, who was a good-natured woman, and always gave us tea on Sunday evenings—weak, indeed, but we thought it delicious; on other evenings we had milk-and-water and bread-and-butter.

My nurse soon came back with her purchase. The large kettle was set on the fire, the great brown loaf was brought out, and nurse began cutting slices of bread-and-butter for us.

The children were so delighted at the thoughts of the treat they were to have that they began dancing about the floor, and I, forgetting my late sorrow, joined in their sports. When the repast was quite ready we took our places, some at the table, and some on the benches, as we could find room. Nurse gave each of us a little basin of tea and a good slice of bread-and-butter, and I think I may say that the whole body of aldermen dining at the Lord Mayor's feast never ate their meal with half the zest that we felt in sipping our homely tea, and eating our brown bread.

Soon after the tea was over nurse proposed my returning home, as the days were short, and as she did not wish me to be out after it was dark. I felt a pang at the idea of so soon parting with my good nurse, but without replying I immediately put on my bonnet and cloak. Nurse and the children accompanied me a full mile on my way home, and then we parted with tears on both sides.

Chapter IV

It was a very fine morning, the sun shone brightly, the fields, hedges, and trees were covered with snow, which, as the air was very cold, did not melt, but sparkled and glittered most beautifully. I gazed with much pleasure on the scenery as we passed along, and should have been cheerful, but I was with strangers, who took very little notice of me, scarcely speaking to me the whole day, so that I could not help feeling sorrowful, and sometimes even wished myself back again with Mrs. Dawson.

About seven o'clock in the evening we stopped at a small shop in one of the cross streets in the Borough. There I was told that we were at home. We entered, and I gave a curious and somewhat fearful glance round the place. The shop was set out partly with umbrellas and partly with shoes, but everything seemed dirty and in confusion. Shoe-lasts, umbrella-sticks, and a large quantity of whalebone, were lying in heaps about the floor, while in one corner stood a large pan of dirty water in which they soaked the leather, and which, not being often changed, sent forth a most unpleasant smell; the floor did not appear as if it was swept once in a month. We entered the parlour, which was in the same state of dirt and confusion as the shop. Three dirty children, whose ages I was afterwards told were thirteen, eleven, and nine, came to meet their parents. Their frocks were dirty and ragged, their stockings with holes in them, their shoes slipped down at the heel, while they wore strings of coloured beads round their necks, that did not seem as if they were washed oftener than once a month. They were clamouring round their parents to know what they had brought them from the country, and who I was.

Their father gave them a basket with cakes and fruit in it, and told them to take that, and ask him no questions till he was at leisure to answer them. The master's sister, who had taken charge of the house during his absence, was dressed much in the same style as the children, her stockings being dirty and with holes in them, her gown unripped in several places at the seams, and on her head a dirty cap, with a fine lace border and ornamented with pink ribbon. The room and furniture were in the same untidy condition, and as I looked around me I could not but fear that my situation in this house would be very uncomfortable.

We were all of us both tired and cold. The sister made tea, of which Mrs. Smith gave me a good basinful, and a thick slice of bread-and-butter. They then began talking among themselves, and me and my little history was the subject of their conversation. They were all much amused at my being called Lady Anne. Mrs. Smith declared that she would either call me Anne or Nancy, and Mr. Smith insisted that I should have my full title.

'I tell you what, husband,' said she, 'you may call her what you please, but I shall call her Nanny.'

'And I tell you what, wife,' returned he, 'I shall call her Lady Anne, and so shall the children, or I'll strap them well, and you ought to call her so. Who knows but that girl may be the means of making our fortune? If she really is an earl's daughter, her father may come into our shop some day to look at an umbrella or a pair of shoes, and when he hears us call her Lady Anne he will, of course, inquire the reason; then we shall tell him her history, he'll make us a present—a handsome one, too—not less than a thousand pounds, I should think, or, if it is not a handsome one, I'll send him in a swinging bill for her keep, so that I will have it one way or another.'

'Why, you know that we must keep her,' replied his wife; 'she is our servant, and will soon be our 'prentice, if she can do our work.'

'You know nothing about it,' returned her husband. 'If she is bound to us, we shall be bound to keep her; but if she is not, whenever we find her father we can send him in a good bill for her keep, and make him pay it too, that is my opinion of the matter.'

'And so,' answered his wife, 'for the sake of this fine dream you mean to lose the 'prentice fees, do you?'

'Aye, do I,' replied he, 'and you'll thank me for it too, when his earlship gives me the thousand pounds.'

'And in the meantime,' asked his wife, 'what is to be done with her ladyship? Is she to be kept for looking at?'

'You may look at her as much as you please,' answered her husband, 'but, as she will eat, so she must work or starve, and now give me a glass of gin and water, for tea is not worth drinking, and I have talked till my throat is dry.'

His wile brought out and mixed the liquor, repeating to herself: 'And so for this fine castle in the air we are to lose the 'prentice fees.'

Mr. Smith now had a pipe, and sat smoking and drinking, his wife and sister talked on indifferent subjects, and the children amused themselves by repeatedly coming to me, and saying, 'How do you do, Lady Anne? I hope you are very well,' and the like idle expressions. Their father laughed, and said they had learned their lesson already, but their mother, who was vexed at losing the apprentice fees, after some little time told them to be quiet, or she would send them to bed. This command released me from their silly questions; they got different playthings, and seated themselves on the floor near the fire, while I sat on a stool on a distant part of the room, but glad at any rate to be free from their questions.

At length nine o'clock came. Mrs. Smith gave each of the children a slice of bread-and-butter, and I was in hopes she would have given me one too, but I was mistaken. After the children had taken their supper she said to me:

'Now, Anne, you will go upstairs with us, and I will show you where you are to sleep. You must be up betimes in the morning, and let us see what you can do for your living; for, I assure you, we shall not keep you in idleness, though you are a lady.'

Without reply, I followed them upstairs into a large back attic, which was in the same comfortless state as the shop and parlour. There was only one bed in the room, and it had neither curtains or posts: it had not been made that day at the least. Mrs. Smith merely laid it smooth, while the children took off their clothes, which they threw in heaps upon the floor, and then scrambled into bed, without either nightgown or night-cap. Mrs. Smith then looked round the room, and said:

'I must now contrive a bed for you, child.'

I looked round, too, but did not see anything that seemed to me likely to answer such a purpose. There were, indeed, several heaps of dirty old clothes, but they did not appear to me fit for anything but to burn, or to send away among the ashes. Mrs. Smith, however, approached one of them, and said:

'Here, child, you may pick out plenty of clothes, and spread them upon the floor, and I will give you an old blanket to cover you: then, I think, you will do very well.'

I went to the heap, and my heart heaved with sickness and disgust as I lifted up dirty old coats, trousers, waistcoats, and gowns. It seemed as if all the old clothes of the family for the last ten years had been collected into this room; and out of this mass of litter I was to make my bed. This was, indeed, heart-breaking to me, for all my life I had been accustomed to cleanliness, even when in the workhouse; for there, though we lived hard and slept hard, yet everything was clean.

'What is the girl thinking about?' said Mrs. Smith angrily. 'Pick out a few things and make your bed. I cannot stand waiting upon you for half an hour.'

I did not dare to answer, but picked out a few of the things that looked the least dirty, and spread them upon the floor. Mrs. Smith then went downstairs, and in a few minutes brought me up an old blanket, which she threw upon the floor, saying:

'I cannot stay any longer; it is moonlight, and you must make your bed, and go to it as you can.'

She then went away, and I was no sooner alone than, seating myself upon the floor, I wept most bitterly.

'How unhappy I am!' thought I. 'Every change I make is for the worse. When I left my nurse I was worse off at the workhouse; and now I have left the workhouse I am worse off here; and my father—I shall never see him more, for he will never find me in such a dirty place as this.'

Again I wept, but, being overpowered with sleep, I wrapped the blanket round me, and, laying myself upon the old clothes I had spread upon the floor, I was soon in a sound sleep.

I was awakened the next morning at an early hour by Mr. Smith knocking at the room door, and telling me to make haste down and light the fire. This I did, and swept up the parlour, which I made look as tidy as I could. After breakfast, of which I had but a very scanty allowance, I was ordered into the shop, and Mr. Smith sat down, and began teaching me how to make the covers for umbrellas. The shop-door was open, and my hands were so cold that I could scarcely hold the needle; but I did as well as I was able, and worked till I was called to my dinner, which was not till the rest of the family had dined; then all the bits of fat and scraps that they did not like were scraped together into a plate for me, which, with a very small piece of meat in addition, and a few potatoes, was my dinner. Complaint was useless. I had no choice but to eat it or to go without. I then returned to my work till the family had taken their tea, when a small basinful was given to me, and one slice of bread-and-butter—not a slice all round the loaf, but half round it. After tea, Mr. Smith went out, and his wife and sister, with two other women that came in, spent the evening at cards. At nine o'clock the children had their supper and went to bed. I was in hopes that I should be allowed to go, too, nine o'clock being the hour when we had been sent to bed at the workhouse. I accordingly folded up my work and went into the parlour.

'Well, what do you want?' said Mrs. Smith.

'If you please, ma'am, may I have my supper and go to bed?'

'Supper and go to bed!' exclaimed she. 'Pretty talk for a workhouse girl! No, miss, you will have no supper. Three meals a day are enough for you, I should think; and as for bed, you will not go till your master comes home, and that will not be till twelve o'clock. So now, my lady, go and sit down to your work again.'

I obeyed in silence, for, indeed, having no choice, I could not do otherwise; but, being overpowered with sleep, I soon nodded over my work. This Mrs. Smith observed, for, the upper half of the partition between the shop and parlour being of glass, she could see all that passed, and, seeing me nod, she came out, and shook and beat me till I was thoroughly awake. At ten o'clock the shop was shut up by Mrs. Smith and her sister, Mrs. Smith telling me that would be my work as soon as I was tall enough to put up the shutters. I still kept to my sewing, though two or three times I fell asleep over it, from which I was as roughly awakened as at the first. At length, to my great relief, twelve o'clock struck, the two visitors departed, and soon after Mr. Smith knocked at the door. As soon as he came in his wife began scolding him for spending his time and money at a public-house, and said that he would bring them all to the workhouse. He retorted by saying that she lost more money at cards than he spent at the public-house. They then quarrelled violently. Blows were given on both sides, when Mr. Smith, happening to see me, told me to be gone to bed, or he would knock me down. I did not require to be told twice, but, hastening from the room, groped my way upstairs (for I was not allowed any candle), where, rejoiced at having escaped from the confusion below, I wrapped the blanket round me, and, laying myself upon the heap of rubbish, soon fell asleep.

The two succeeding days passed nearly as the one I have described. Then came Sunday, which, instead of being a day of rest, of worship of the great Giver of all good, and a day of innocent recreation, was, in this misguided family, a day of complete slavery, for I found that it was the only one in the whole week that was devoted to domestic business. The whole house was to be cleaned. The dishes, plates, and saucepans, which had been used over and over again without washing during the week, were now all to be washed. The knives were to be cleaned, the boots and shoes to be brushed and blacked, and all this it was expected I should do. I did the best I could, and kept on working from six o'clock in the morning till nine o'clock at night, without sitting down the whole time, except the few minutes when I took my three scanty meals; but now, overpowered with fatigue, I fainted away upon the floor.

I believe I continued insensible for rather a long time, for, when I began to recover my hearing, I heard Mrs. Smith and the sister talking together very earnestly, and as if they were fearful of getting into trouble on my account. They were sprinkling me with water, and holding hartshorn for me to smell, at the same time conversing in the following manner:

'I wish we had not taken this girl,' said Mrs. Smith. 'She has not strength to do our work. We cannot afford to keep her for nothing; and yet, if she dies, people will say that we killed her. How white she looks! I am afraid that she really is dead.'

'Pour a little gin-and-water down her throat,' said the sister. 'If she has life in her, that will bring her to; and, to tell you my opinion of the matter, I think you half starve her, and overwork her besides. But get the gin, or she will be dead to all intents and purposes.'

Mrs. Smith, I suppose (for, though I could hear, I was still unable to open my eyes), mixed the liquor, and poured a little of it into my mouth. It acted like a cordial upon me, for I was soon able to open my eyes, and I found myself supported in the arms of the sister, and Mrs. Smith holding the liquor.

'What is the matter with you, child?' said she. 'Are you subject to fits?'

Unable to speak, I burst into tears.

'Very well,' said she; 'you are better now. There, empty the cup, and I will give you some bread and cheese, and then you shall go to bed.'

I did as I was desired, and, after I had eaten the bread and cheese, I staggered, partly from weakness and partly from the effects of the liquor I had taken, up into my room, where sleep soon made me forget all my sorrows.

The weary week circled round, and the dreaded Sunday again appeared; but this day Mrs. Smith obliged the children to help a little in the work. What they did was but little, but to me every little was of consequence. She also allowed rather more victuals; and at eight o'clock in the evening she gave me a good slice of bread and cheese and a teacupful of porter, which strengthened me so much that I did all my work, and at ten o'clock was allowed to go to bed—my miserable bed, which at first I had beheld with so much disgust, was now the only place where I found any comfort, for there I was free from scolding and anger. There I slept soundly, there I generally forgot all my sorrow, and sometimes even dreamed that I had found my father.

Chapter V

The return of spring in some measure alleviated my sufferings, for, as the weather grew warmer, my hands and feet got better; but, to counterbalance this comfort, my quantity of work was increased; and, as the days lengthened, I was obliged to rise earlier, for during the three months in the middle of summer I rose every morning at four o'clock. Being allowed so short a time for rest occasioned me to be continually sleepy, so that I could not help sometimes falling asleep over my work, even during the day, and this was sure of being the means of my having a severe beating from either Mr. Smith or his wife. My health daily declined, and I was pleased that it did so, for I was in hopes that I should soon die, and be released from all my troubles. Thus passed away the summer and autumn. Winter approached. It was now the latter end of November, and the weather had set in extremely cold. A heavy fall of snow, with a sharp frost, was succeeded by a slight thaw, which made the streets worse to walk in than either a severe frost or completely wet, when one morning Mrs. Smith told me to take an apple-pie to the baker's. I took the pie and went as carefully as I could, that I might not fall, or get my feet wet, for my shoes were now so worn out that they did not keep my feet from the ground; but in crossing the main street in the borough, as I was trying to step over the gutter, which was choked up with snow and loose pieces of ice, my foot slipped, and down I fell. The pie went into the gutter, where the dish was smashed to pieces, and the paste, sugar, and apples mingled with the dirty water. At first I could not see, owing to the quantity of muddy water that had splashed up into my face; but, having cleared my eyes, I saw an old match-woman cramming the pie-crust into her basket, a crowd of ragged children were fishing the apples out of the gutter, and a number of men and women, who ought to have known better, were laughing at me.

'Pray, ma'am,' said I to the match-woman, 'give me back the dough that I may take it home.'

'La, child!' said she, 'what good can a bit of dirty pie-crust do you? I am sure your mistress would not use it, and when I have washed off the mud it will make me a little dumpling.'

'Pray give it me back,' said I. 'Oh dear! what shall I do? I shall be so beat!'

'Beat!' repeated a man, who at that moment came up and lifted me over the gutter on to the pavement, 'you will be killed. If I was in your place, I would run away. Depend upon it, if you go back, Mother Smith would beat you to death.'

This man lived in our street, and knew the Smiths very well. A woman, on hearing their name mentioned, looked at me and said: 'Is this Smith's girl? Why, they will kill her and eat her for their dinner as she has lost them their pie.'

'They would not gain much by that,' said a man, 'for the girl has not a pound of flesh upon her bones.'

'Run, I tell you,' said the man who had first spoken to me. 'It is impossible for you to be worse off than you are with them; and if they catch you, they will be the death of you.'

'Run, girl, run,' was shouted on all sides, 'run, run for your life!' called out the boys, who by this time had pretty well picked up all the apples. I still stood weeping, not knowing what to do, when a woman exclaimed:

'As I am alive, here comes Mother Smith with a great whalebone; now, girl, you'll be cut to pieces.'

A general shout of 'Run! run!' from men, women, and children almost deafened me. Without stopping to see if Mrs. Smith was really coming, I did run as fast as my feet would carry me, till, strength and breath failing, I was obliged to slacken my pace. I had by this time run nearly the whole length of the Borough, and was almost at London Bridge. I had never before seen the Thames, and thought it was the sea. The noise of the water-works frightened me, and I hesitated about venturing on the bridge; but, seeing others go over, I, with some fear, followed them, and thought that I had escaped a great danger when I reached the opposite end in safety. But this imaginary fear was but a short interruption to my more just one of Mrs. Smith, and I now ventured to look back to see if I was pursued. Terror, I suppose, deceived me, for I thought I saw her coming with a stick in her hand. I again set off running, and, following the stream of the people, was soon in Cheapside. My feet were now sore, and cut in several places by the ice; but I still hurried on as well as I was able, till I entered St. Paul's Churchyard. There, notwithstanding my fear, I stood still to gaze on the immense and beautiful building, which I now for the first time beheld, and for some minutes I was lost in a dream of astonishment. My dream was soon interrupted by the crowds of people who were hurrying on in different directions, and who pushed me about without any ceremony, so that I was soon obliged to collect my scattered ideas and consider what I was now to do. I had left Mr. Smith's, but I had no where else to go to, not a friend to receive me, nor a house to shelter me for a single night. As I thought of my miserable situation, the tears chased each other down my face. Of the great numbers who passed me, no doubt some observed them; but they were all too much engaged with their own concerns to make any inquiries into the sorrows of a poor little outcast like myself, and I passed on unheeded. Going on with the course of the people, I went through St. Paul's Churchyard, down Ludgate Hill, along Fleet Street, and entered the Strand. By this time I had made the determination of endeavouring to find my way back to E——; of going to Mr. Sanders's, and telling him how ill I had been treated by the Smiths; for I thought that his influence with the overseers would prevent their punishing me, as they had threatened, if I did not stay in my place. I therefore now began to look down all the streets as I passed them to see if any of them led to the country; but on the right hand side they all led to other streets. I began to think I should never come to the end of them. Being at length arrived opposite to Catharine Street, I looked up to it, and saw that it led to a wide space, where there was a great quantity of green that looked like small trees. 'Well,' thought I, 'this must be the way into the country, and the trees are beginning to grow here, but how little they are!'



I immediately crossed the Strand, went up Catharine Street, and entered Covent Garden. Disappointment damped my hopes when I found that this great space was surrounded by houses; but there was something so pleasing in the appearance of the evergreens that were exposed for sale, and the shops looked so pretty, being set out with holly and laurel, that I crossed into the market, and walked slowly along, examining the countenances of the shopkeepers, to see if there was one that looked sufficiently good-natured for me to dare to speak to her. At last I asked a woman who kept a fruit and flower shop if she would be so good as to direct me the way to E——.

'To E——, child? Why, you are near forty miles off. What do you want there?'

'I want to go to Mr. Sanders's,' replied I, 'and to tell him how ill Mr. Smith used me, and perhaps he would get me another place, and not let the overseers punish me.'

'I don't know what you are talking about, child,' said the woman. 'I know nothing of Mr. Sanders nor Mr. Smith. Who are they?'

I looked in surprise at the woman, for I thought it impossible but everybody must know Mr. Sanders. I, however, replied that he was the clergyman at E——.

'Well,' said she, 'and who are you? A parish 'prentice, I should suppose, by your gown.'

'And run away from your master,' said a man who had drawn near, attracted by curiosity.

'Come, tell the truth,' said the woman, 'what made you run away? For that, I suppose, is the case.'

I related the accident of the pie. The man and several others, who had come near to listen, laughed heartily.

'And so,' said he, 'the old woman picked up the pie-crust, did she? She was no bad judge. The boys had the apples, the gutter had the sugar, you had the mud; and, if you had gone home, I suppose you would have had the cane. Ha! ha! ha!'

All the people laughed at this, and I stood crying.

'Don't cry,' said the fruiteress, 'you shall not go back to Smith's again. I will see if I cannot get you another place, and a pair of stockings and shoes too, for you are barefoot.'

'So she is,' said the man who had laughed so heartily; 'she seems to belong to the ragged regiment, to be sure. But how comes it, child, that your father and mother did not look after you a little?'

At the mention of these dear names, my tears flowed afresh, and I sobbed out that I had no father or mother. The good-natured fruiteress absolutely wept; several women, who had come round us, shed tears; and the men said it was a great deal too bad that poor orphans should be treated so barbarously.

'Well,' said the man who had laughed so much, 'pitying will do her but little good without something more substantial, so there's twopence for you, child, towards a pair of shoes; and if all these good people will give you as much you will soon be shod.'

They did so far follow his example as to give me some a penny and some a halfpenny, so that in a short time I had one shilling and sevenpence halfpenny. They then went away, the fruiteress assuring them that I should have shoes and stockings, and that she had no doubt but that she could get me a place at a gardener's in the country where I might be comfortable. When the people were all gone, she told me to come into the shop and warm myself; but when she looked at my face, scratched with the ice and smeared with mud, she said:

'I think a good washing will be the best thing for you, for you cannot be made comfortable till you are clean.'

She then gave me soap, water, a towel, and I was not a little glad of having the means of washing myself well. She then looked at my feet, which were much cut with the ice, and still bleeding.

'Poor child,' said she, 'I think you have suffered enough for breaking a pie-dish. However, its done, and you shall soak your feet well with warm water; and when my little girls come with my dinner I will see if I cannot find you a pair of shoes.'

I accordingly washed my feet well, which was a comfort I had not experienced for many months. The good woman threw away my old stockings and shoes, and, doubling a piece of carpet under my feet, told me to sit by the fire till her children brought the dinner.

Thus refreshed, and seated on a low stool near the fire, I leaned my head against the wall, and was soon in a sound sleep. From this I was awakened in a little more than half an hour by a murmuring of voices. My first idea was that Mrs. Smith had discovered my retreat, and I started up in terror, exclaiming:

'Oh, save me from her, for she will kill me!'

'Do not frighten yourself, my dear,' said the fruiteress, 'it is only my little girls with the dinner. Come and sit to the table, I dare say you are hungry.'

That I really was, but I was so dirty and ragged that I felt ashamed of sitting at the table with people who had everything clean and whole upon them. I therefore stood back, and, telling my reasons, asked her to let me have my dinner upon the stool.

'Take off that ragged apron,' said she, 'and, Sally, my dear, let the little girl have yours, and then come and sit down to dinner with us, child.'

Sally, a good-natured girl, seemingly about fourteen years old, took off her clean coloured apron, which she gave to me, and then, observing my naked feet, exclaimed:

'Dear mother, she has no shoes! Shall I take off mine, and let her have them?'

'After dinner,' replied her mother, 'you must see if you have not a tolerable pair of shoes and stockings that you can give her; but now let us sit down, and be thankful that we have a good home to shelter us, and victuals to eat, and are not, like this poor child, without either.'

The fruiteress (whose name I found was Williams) then said grace, and we all sat down to a comfortable dinner of boiled mutton, turnips, and potatoes, to which I was helped very liberally. During the repast the children naturally inquired who I was, and why I was there. The mother merely answered them as to how I had come; but, when the dinner was over, she asked me many questions, such as my name, and what I could remember of my parents, etc., and I told them all I could remember, from the time of my mother's death to the misfortunes of the present morning, taking care, at the same time, not to mention that I had my father's portrait in my possession. The good woman shed tears several times, and the children seemed much affected.

'Ah, my dears,' said she to them, 'it is well for you that you have a mother to take care of you, or you would not be better off than this poor child is. I am sure, when your dear father died, I thought we must have all gone to the workhouse; but yet I kept striving and striving, and Providence has sent us a living. But now you had better take the plates and things home, and see if you have not some of your clothes that you can spare for this little girl. Jane, you can let her have your old bonnet.'

'Yes, mother, and my blue spencer, too, for I have left off wearing it. May I bring it?'

'Yes, and make haste, for the poor child is very cold, as you may see, without a bit of a handkerchief on her neck this cold weather!'

The children packed up the plates and the remains of the dinner on a tray, and took them to a room that their mother had at a small distance, where they slept, cooked, etc., as they could not do anything of that sort at the shop, on account of the fruit and flowers. The children soon returned with a bundle of clothes, which, though old, were by no means ragged, and, what was to me a great recommendation, they were all clean. From these things Mrs. Williams gave me a tolerably good pair of stockings and shoes, a very tidy straw bonnet with black ribbons, and a blue cloth spencer. The stockings, shoes, and spencer. I put on immediately, and felt so warm and comfortable that I seemed to myself quite a different creature. I offered to Mrs. Williams the money that had been collected for me in the morning, but she refused it, saying:

'No, my dear, keep your pence; you will want them when you are gone into the country, and I cannot think of taking money from a poor friendless child like you. I have children of my own, and can feel for other people's.'

This good woman then made up the remainder of the things into a small bundle, and told me that she should give them to me, and perhaps more, when I left her, which would most likely be the following day.

'To-morrow is market morning,' said she. 'Several men that I know will be here with their cartloads of vegetables from the country. There is one in particular whom I think a very honest-hearted man. He is married, and has children of his own, so he may feel for you. I mean to ask him if he will try to get you employed at his master's, who has very extensive grounds indeed, and raises vegetables, fruits, and flowers for the London markets. He keeps more than fifty people employed about his grounds, and I think it will be a hard case if he cannot find room for you among them. What do you say, my girl? Will you like to be a gardener?'

I replied that I did not know how to garden, but, if they would show me, I would do all I could to learn.

'That is right,' said she. 'I hope they will engage you, and then, I dare say, you will do very well. I shall tell John Davis all your story, and that you are to be called Lady Anne, for that, as the good clergyman said, will be a more likely way for your father to discover you. It was not at all likely that he should find you out in such a dirty place as Smith's was, but it is probable that he may find you out at Freeman's nursery grounds, for, in the fine weather, he has crowds of quality go to look at his flowers and eat his fruit; and then, in the flower season, he has exhibitions of prize-tulips and prize carnations, when the nobility will go to see them, and there's such a number of carriages and curricles, and horses and gigs, and I don't know what besides, that the road is choked up like St. James's Street on a Court day; and who knows but your father may go among these great people? What do you say to that, Lady Anne?'

Her description had brought former scenes to my mind, and the tears came into my eyes as I expressed my wish that my father might be among those who came to visit the gardens.

The two children stayed all the afternoon, and employed themselves in needlework. Several people came and bought fruit and trees, such as geraniums, myrtles, and other greenhouse plants, so that Mrs. Williams had what she called a good day, and said it would pay her for what she was doing for me. About five o'clock we had tea; and, about nine all the fruit and shrubs were taken inside the shop, which was then shut up, and I accompanied Mrs. Williams and her daughters home to her room. When we arrived there, one of the children made a fire, while the other set the things upon the table for supper. Mrs. Williams looked round the room and said:

'Well, you have been very good girls; everything looks neat and comfortable. We will first have our supper, and then we must think how we can make up a bed for this little girl.'

I now felt so comfortable that, if I could have stayed with Mrs. Williams, I should have been completely happy, and I may say that the few hours I spent in her family were like a bright gleam of sunshine darting through the gloom that had long surrounded me. After our supper, which was bread and broth made from the mutton that was boiled for dinner, Mrs. Williams spread a small mattress upon the ground, which, with two blankets and a pillow, made me a very good bed. She then, from her daughters' clothes, picked me out two pretty good chemises, a flannel petticoat, and an old stuff-frock, which still was a very good one. After I had put on my clean linen, Mrs. Williams took my old clothes, excepting my stays, which I doubled up and laid under my pillow, and tying them in a small bundle, opened the window and threw them into the street, saying:

'Bad as they are, they may be useful to some poor creature.'

We then retired to bed, and I passed some hours in peaceful repose.

Chapter VI

We arose about four o'clock in the morning and went to the market, which, at this early hour, was crowded with waggons, carts, and country people, who had brought various kinds of vegetables for sale. Mrs. Williams and her eldest daughter went among these people to make their purchases, while the younger one, Jane, and myself went to the shop, which we opened, kindled a fire, and prepared everything for breakfast. About eight o'clock Mrs. Williams returned, accompanied by a clean, good-looking countryman, to whom she said:

'This, Master Davis, is the little girl I was mentioning to you. I see breakfast is ready, so sit down and take a cup of tea with us, and I will tell you all I know about her, and how it was she came to me.'

The good man took his seat at the table, and during the time of breakfast Mrs. Williams told him all my little story, and concluded by urging the request that he would try to get me engaged to work in Mr. Freeman's gardens.

'I will do what I can,' said he; 'but this is a bad time of year to take on a fresh hand, and the child looks but weakly, and that, you know, is against her. However, I'll give her the chance, and take her down with me in the cart, and I'll go with her to Mr. Freeman and say what I can for her; and if he engages her, why, I'll let her be at my house as one of my children—that is, if my dame agrees to it, and belike she may, as we have children of our own, and don't know what they may come to; but if master will not engage her, why, I must bring her back again next market-day, for I cannot afford to keep her for nothing.'

'No, no,' said Mrs. Williams; 'I don't desire that you should. If Mr. Freeman will not engage her, bring her back, and I must try to do something else for her; but say all you can in her favour. She is a friendless child, and you don't know what your own children may come to.'

'Very true,' said he. 'I'll do all I can for her. But what be we to call her, as she has no right kind of name? Lady Anne is so long that I shall never get it all out.'

'It is no longer than Mary Anne,' replied she; 'and I think if you are a wise man you will call her by her title and make your children do the same. If it should be the means of discovering her father, it might put a pretty sum into your pocket.'

'Why, as for that, it might and it might not; but if it is the girl's name she shall be called by it, so there's an end to that. And now I must away to settle my money matters, and I'll come back for the child about eleven o'clock, so good-bye t'ye for the present.'

Away went the man, leaving Mrs. Williams much pleased with the success she had met with, as she said she had not a doubt but Mr. Freeman would engage me when he knew it was one of his best customers that asked the favour. I was much pleased too, for, as I could not stay with Mrs. Williams, I did not venture to form a higher wish than to be engaged at Mr. Freeman's, for my spirits had been so much broken during my stay at Smith's that I no longer dared to indulge the hope of ever finding my father.

About eleven o'clock my new friend, John Davis, came for me. Taking my little bundle under his arm, he conducted me to his cart. He lifted me in, and putting his horses into motion, we went shaking and rattling through the streets. This part of the journey was disagreeable enough; but when, at Knightsbridge, we entered the turnpike-road, then it began to be very pleasant. A complete thaw had succeeded to the frost; the fields and hedges looked green, and the air was as soft and mild as if it had been spring. I was seated on a truss of hay in the corner of the cart, and as we rode slowly along my spirits seemed to revive, and I once more indulged the pleasing hope of finding my father; then, again, as we advanced, my hope was damped by fear lest Mr. Freeman would not engage me, or lest Mrs. Davis should refuse to let me be at her house. I continued in this agitation of mind during the time of our little journey. At last we stopped at a cottage by the roadside, at a small distance from Turnham Green. John Davis lifted me out of the cart and led me into the house, where we were received by a woman, whom I immediately found was his wife.

'You are late to-day,' said she; 'and, pray, who is this you have brought with you?'

He took his seat near the fire (while I remained standing near the door), and briefly related my story to her, particularly dwelling on Mrs. Williams being such a good customer that he could not refuse to bring me.

'Bless thee, John!' she said, as he concluded; 'I wish thee had as much wit as good nature, and thee would not have brought another person's child to burden us with. Suppose Master Freeman should not engage her, what's to be done then?'

'I must take her back again, to be sure; but I don't see why he should not engage her—she's a clean, wholesome-looking girl.'

The dame had eyed me pretty well during this conversation. She now gave me another scrutinizing gaze, and then said to her husband:

'She may be clean and wholesome enough—I don't say anything against that—but she's as white as a curd, and does not look as if she has ever had a good meal of victuals in her life.'

'The more's the pity, wife. Then let us give her one. I told you how cruelly that umbrella-maker in the borough used her. I should like to have the dressing of them with my horsewhip. I would lay it on them with goodwill, I give you my word.'

'No fear of that,' replied his wife, 'and they deserve it, too. Come, child, don't stand there by the door; here's a seat for you by the fire. Dinner will soon be ready, and you shall not starve while you are with us, I give you my word; but whether we can let you stay or not is a different question.'

Soon after this their three children, two girls and a boy, who were employed in the nursery-grounds, came in to dinner. The table was quickly spread, and we sat down to an ample repast of good boiled potatoes and fried bacon. After we had dined and sat awhile, Mr. Davis said to me:

'Come, Miss Minnikin, let us go and see what Master Freeman will say to us. Why, wife, I'll be flogged if the girl does not look better already. I fancy she'll do credit to our keep.'

'I suppose the child was cold and wanted her dinner,' replied his wife, 'and now she has had it, of course she looks better. But do you see it is past one o'clock? You had better make haste; and you, children, be off to your work. You have stayed more than an hour at your dinner.'

We now all departed for Mr. Freeman's, which was about half a quarter of a mile distant. The children went to their work in the garden, and Mr. Davis led me up to the house. After having given an account to Mr. Freeman of the money he had taken at the market that morning, he presented me to him, and mentioned Mrs. Williams's request.

'Well, Master Davis,' said Mr. Freeman, 'I do not want another hand, you know very well; but Mrs. Williams is, as you say, a very good customer, and so, I suppose, we must give the child a trial. Take her to Master Joseph, and he will set her about something, and we shall be able to judge by Saturday night what she can earn, and you shall be paid what is right, for I suppose she will be with you.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Mr. Davis. 'She shall take lot and scot among my own children. I shall make no difference.'

'Well, well,' said Mr. Freeman, 'we will do what is right by her and you too.'

I was then taken into the grounds to Mr. Joseph, who was the head-gardener. We found him working at a flower-bed. When he saw Mr. Davis he said:

'Well, friend, what have you there—a lily or a snow-drop?'

'Which you please, Master Joseph,' replied the other. 'She is a little girl that I have brought to put under your government.'

He then gave him an account how he had met with me, told him I was an Earl's daughter, but had lost my father, and was to be called Lady Anne. At this Mr. Joseph laughed, and said 'he had no objection to call me Lady Anne, but that he should forget and call me Lady Lily.' After a little more talk it was agreed that I should go the following morning, as they both said it was too late for me to begin work that day. Mr. Davis then conducted me back to his cottage, and having told his wife that I was engaged, he went away to his work. The good dame told me that I might sit down and rest myself, for she supposed I was tired. I really was very tired, but seeing her engaged in mending the family clothes, I told her that if she pleased I would help her.

'What!' said she; 'can you sew? I am sure if you can I shall be very glad of your help, for my girls never put in a stitch, even for themselves, except it is some finery for Sundays, and then they do it because I can't do it well enough for them. There, my girl, if you can mend me those stockings you'll do me a service. They have holes large enough for you to put your hand through. I have sometimes thought that if the girls would not mend their stockings themselves they should wear them with holes in, and so they would, for never a stitch would they put in, and then I am ashamed of seeing them go about in rags, so I keep mending for them; but I have so much to do that I can hardly keep them tidy.'

I took the stockings and found the dame had described them very correctly, for one of the holes was so large that I actually did put my hand through it. However, by dint of close application, I mended two pairs of them before it was quite dark. I was then obliged to lay aside my work, as Mrs. Davis said she should not yet light a candle, and I need not do any more work till after tea. My having helped her at the needlework put her into high good humour, and she asked me a great many questions, and said she was glad that Mr. Freeman had engaged me, and that, if I behaved myself properly, I should be very welcome to stay with them till I was old enough to take care of myself. These kind expressions, so different to any I had heard for a long time, cheered my heart. I thanked her most sincerely, and promised to do all I could to please her. I then helped her to prepare the tea. Soon after this Mr. Davis and the children came in. We sat down to our tea, and during the repast the eager questions of the children as to who I was, where I came from, and what I was to do, were more attended to than they had been at dinner-time. Their father gave them some account of me, and made me relate all the particulars of my falling into the kennel with the pie. They all laughed heartily, and now that I was out of danger, I could not help laughing at it myself.

'That smashing of the pie is a good joke,' said Mr. Davis. 'I should like to see how the Smiths looked when you did not go back, and when they heard that you had laid their pie in the gutter. I warrant they would wear out more pairs of shoes than they would sell in a week in running after the old woman and the boys; but I can tell you, girl, it was a lucky chance for you that you did tumble down, or else you would still have been with them misericating in their dirty garret. By-the-by, dame, where's the girl to sleep?'

'That question is sooner asked than answered,' replied his wife. 'You know there is not a bit to spare in the house; the children cannot be put out of their beds. There is no way that I can see but for her to have a blanket and sleep among the hay in the loft over the stable. I have slept so many a time when I was a girl, and was none the worse for it.'

'I wish you could make room for her in the house,' answered her husband. 'I do not like the thought of turning her out of the house, as it were. Could you not make her up a bed on the floor?'

'No, no,' replied his wife, 'I cannot. I can see no hardship in her sleeping upon clean sweet hay, with a good blanket to wrap round her.'

To shorten the contest I said that I thought I could sleep very well upon the hay, though I certainly should have preferred sleeping in the house, but I was afraid they would quarrel on my account, which would have been to my injury; and, at all events, the hay-loft was a better place to sleep in than the wretched attic at Mr. Smith's. This point being settled, Mr. Davis went out, as he had not yet finished his day's work, and it being dark, so that no more work could be done in the gardens, the children remained at home.

I had now an opportunity of observing these children. The eldest was a girl, seemingly about thirteen, of a healthy, robust appearance, but by no means neat in her dress. The second, a girl of eleven, with much the same appearance as her sister; and the youngest, a boy, seemingly about nine, a chubby, good-natured-looking little fellow, and, I thought, very like his father. After the tea-things were put away, the girls brought each a little box to the table, in which was a quantity of odd pieces of muslin, ribbon, silk, etc., and they passed the evening in making these things up into frills and other articles of finery. The boy brought a quantity of wood to the further end of the table, and with no tool but a knife and a little saw, he employed himself in making little toys. That evening he made a dining-table and a chair.

'Tommy is a clever boy,' said the mother to me, seeing I was looking at his work. 'He amuses himself of an evening in making these kind of toys, and he sells them to young gentlemen and ladies in the neighbourhood, and I assure you they like his toys better than what they buy in the shops. What was it Master Watson gave you for the little boat, Tommy?'

'Half a crown, mother; but I was two weeks in making it; and last week I earned two shillings in making chairs and tables.'

I felt curious to know what Tommy did with his money, as he earned so much, but I did not like to ask the question, as that would have been rude. However, his mother, who seemed very fond of him, and, I thought, justly so, soon told me.

'Tommy earns a great deal of money by this kind of work, which is his play,' said she; 'and he gives every farthing of it to his father and me. Part of it we lay out in clothes for him, and the rest we are saving till he is ten years old, and then he is to go to school, and his own money will pay for it. We take what he earns at the grounds for his keep, but all that he earns of an evening shall be laid out upon himself. I wish my girls were half as industrious.'

'Why, la! mother,' said the eldest, 'you would never let us amuse ourselves at all, I believe. We go to the grounds as soon as it is light of a morning and work there till it is dark of an evening, and you have all the money we earn. I don't know what more you would have.'

'I would have you mend your own clothes, hussy, and not spend all these long evenings in making up a parcel of finery that only makes people laugh at you.'

I was much afraid that the mother and daughter would have quarrelled, but Tommy, showing his workmanship to his mother, took her attention from his sister, and thus peace was restored. Mrs. Davis and I spent the evening, till nine o'clock, in mending stockings. Then her husband came in, and we sat down to our supper of bread and cheese and small beer.

After supper was over Mr. Davis would not allow any more work to be done, so we sat and chatted till ten o'clock, which was bedtime. Mrs. Davis then gave me a piece of rush-light in a lanthorn, and I was shown to the hay-loft, where the fragrant smell of the hay was as refreshing as the dirt at Mr. Smith's had been disgusting.

I soon tossed up a sufficient quantity of hay to make myself a soft nice bed; and, after having on my knees returned thanks to the Almighty for having delivered me from such a state of misery as I had been in, I wrapped the blanket around me, and, laying down on the hay, was soon in a profound slumber.

Chapter VII

I was awakened the next morning about seven o'clock by Mr. Davis, who came into the stable below, calling out:

'What! hollo, lassy! Be you awake? Come, it's time to get up. Breakfast is almost ready, and you must be in the gardens by eight o'clock.'

I had slept so soundly, and had such an uncommonly long night to what I had for the last eight months been accustomed to, that I did not at first recollect where I was, but, quickly remembering everything, I answered Mr. Davis, and, dressing myself as expeditiously as possible I went down. Going into an outhouse, where there was plenty of water, I gave myself a good washing, and, having combed my hair with a comb that Mrs. Williams had given me, I went into the house and found the family just beginning their breakfast.

'I'll be flogged if the girl does not look five pounds better than she did yesterday morning, when I first saw her at Mrs. Williams's!' said Mr. Davis. 'You have slept well, girl, I'll answer for it.'

'Yes, sir,' I replied. 'I have slept better than I did all the time I was at Mr. Smith's.'

'I knew she would sleep well upon the sweet hay,' said Mrs. Davis. 'But, come, child, take your breakfast. It is almost time you should be gone.'

Breakfast being soon over, I accompanied the children to the garden, where, having conducted me to Mr. Joseph, they went to their own work in another part of the grounds.

Mr. Joseph was a grave man, between fifty and sixty years of age. He superintended all the work of the garden. Some of the children he instructed himself in what they were to do, and some he put under the care of other people. He had read a good deal, and understood botany, and knew the Latin names of all the trees and plants in the garden. That Mr. Freeman had sent me to be under his own care, I was very glad, for he seemed a very good-natured man. After a little conversation, in which he asked me if I could read, if I knew anything about gardening, and a few more of the like questions, he set me to pick the weeds and stones out of a bed of pinks, and, having shown me how to do it, he left me to myself. I worked diligently at my new employment (frequently congratulating myself on the happy change I had made). The clock struck twelve, when we all went home to dinner. One hour was allowed for that repast. When I returned in the afternoon, Mr. Joseph came to see what I had done. He commended my diligence, and, as the first bed was tolerably well weeded, he told me to go on to the next, and I was again left to myself.

In high spirits at being praised, which was quite a new thing to me, I worked on all the afternoon till about four o'clock, when it became too dark to distinguish plants from weeds; then, in company with the children, I returned home to Davis's cottage. What a delightful contrast did this cottage present to the miserable shop and parlour at Smith's! There everything was spoiled by dirt and confusion: here all was clean. The brick floor was nicely swept and sanded, a cheerful fire blazed in the grate, and the tea, with plenty of coarse bread and salt butter, was ready upon the table, and the countenances of the family expressed health and contentment. After tea was over I again offered my services to Mrs. Davis to assist her in her sewing. They were willingly accepted, and this evening passed as the former one had done. At ten o'clock I again retired to my bed in the loft.