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.