mother had
given up sewing for shops--which kept us nearly always hungry--and had
found other occupations. But the great object of both our lives was to be
together, and there are few people who are willing to employ a woman who
has with her a child. And if her services are accepted, even at a reduced
salary, it is necessary for that child to be as far as possible neither
seen nor heard. Therefore until I was old enough to be admitted into a
public school I never knew another child--I never played with any living
creature save a remarkable cat, that seemed to have claws all over her,
and in my fixed determination to trace her purr and find out where it
came from, she buried those claws to the very last one in my fat,
investigating little hands.

Meantime my "fear" had assumed the shape and substance of a man, a man
who bore a name that should have been loved and honored above all others,
for this "bogey" of my baby days--this nightmare and dread--was my own
father. When my mother had discovered his treachery--which had not
hesitated to boldly face the very altar--she took her child and fled from
him, assuming her mother's maiden name as a disguise. But go where she
would, he followed and made scenes. Finally, understanding that she was
not to be won back by sophistries, he offered to leave her in peace if
she would give the child to him. And when that offer was indignantly
rejected, he pleasantly informed her that he would make life a curse to
her until she gave me up, and that by fair means or by foul he would
surely obtain possession of me. Once he did kidnap me, but my mother had
found friends by that time, and their pursuit was so swift and unexpected
that he had to abandon me.

So, he who should have been the defender and support of my mother--whose
arms should have been our shelter from the world--the big, smiling
French-Canadian father--became instead our terror and our dread.
Therefore when my mother served in varying capacities in other people's
homes, and I had to efface myself as nearly as possible, I dared not even
go out to walk a little, so great was my mother's fear.

It seems odd, but in spite of my far-reaching memory, I cannot remember
when I learned to read. I can recall but one tiny incident relating to
the subject of learning. I stood upon a chair and while my hair was
brushed and braided I spelled my words, and I had my ears boxed--a custom
considered criminal in these better days--because, havin