through the influence of my uncle, Michael Kelly, the celebrated
singer and composer of that day, I was allowed to become a
miniature chorister in her place....

One Saturday, during the limited season of nine months in the
year, Mr. Peake (dear, good old gentleman!) looking, as I remember
he always did--anxiously perplexed--doubtless as to how he could
best dole out the too frequently insufficient amount provided for
the ill-paid company, silently looked me in the face, while he
carefully folded a very _dirty, ragged_ bank note--put it into my
hand, patted my cheek, and with a slight pressure on my shoulder,
hinting there was no time for our usual gossip--as good as said,
"go, my dear," and I hurried down the long gallery, lined down
each side with performers of all degrees, more than one of whom
whispered as I passed--"Is it full pay, dear?" I nodded "Yes," and
proceeded to my seat on the window of the landing-place.

It was a great comfort in those days, to have a bank-note to
look at; but not always easy to open one. Mine had been cut and
repaired with a line of gum paper, about twenty times as thick as
the note itself, threatening the total destruction of the thin
part.

Now observe in what small matters Fanny and Barbara were in a
marked degree different characters. Barbara, at 11 years of age,
was some time before she felt the different size of a guinea to a
half guinea, _held tight in her hand_. I, at nine years old, was
not so untaught, or innocent. I was a woman of the world. I took
_nothing_ for granted. I had a deep respect for Mr. Peake, but the
join might have disfigured the note--destroyed its currency; and
it was my business to see all safe. So, I carefully opened it. A
two pound-note instead of one! The blood rushed into my face, the
tears into my eyes, and for a moment, something like an ecstasy
of joy passed through my mind. "Oh! what a blessing to my dear
mother!"--"To whom?"--in an instant said my violently beating
heart,--"My mother?" Why she would spurn me for the wish. How
shall I ever own to her my guilty thought? I trembled violently--I
staggered back on my way to the Treasury, but no one would let me
pass, until I said, "But Mr. Peake has given me too much." "Too
much, has he?" said one, and was followed by a coarse, cold,
derisive, general