a prey to unavailing sorrow,
the lovely little girl who had occasioned it was beginning to grow more
reconciled to the cruelty of her destiny, and to support her different
mode of life with resignation and composure. She had acquired such a
degree of skill in the art of lacemaking (which was the business her
employer followed) as generally to be able to perform the tasks which
were allotted her; and if it so happened she was incapable of doing it,
Sally Butchell, a child almost two years older than herself, of whom she
was very fond, was always kind enough to complete it for her.

The cottage in which the vile Mrs. Bullen resided was situated about a
quarter of a mile from High Wycombe; and whenever she was obliged to go
to that place, either to purchase or to dispose of her goods, she always
went either before her family were up, or after they had retired to
rest, locking the door constantly after her, and putting the key in her
pocket, so that the poor little souls had no opportunity of telling
their misfortunes to any human creature.

One intense hot afternoon, in the month of August, as the children were
sitting hard at work with the door open for the sake of air, an elderly
lady and gentleman walked up to it, and begged to be accommodated with a
seat, informing Mrs. Bullen their carriage had broke down a mile
distant, and they had been obliged to walk in the heat of the sun.

The appearance of so many children, all industriously employed, was a
sight particularly pleasing to the liberal-minded Mrs. Montague, and she
immediately began asking the woman several questions about them; but
there was something of confusion in her manner of replying that called
forth Mrs. Montague's surprise and astonishment.

'They really are lovely children, my dear,' said she, turning to Mr.
Montague, who had stood at the door watching the approach of the
carriage, which he perceived coming forward; 'and as to that little
creature with the mole under her left eye, I declare I think it is a
perfect beauty.'

Mr. Montague turned his head, and regarded Eliza with a look that at
once proved that his sentiments corresponded with those of his lady.

'What is your name, my love?' said he, in a tone of kindness which poor
Eliza had long been a stranger to.

The child coloured like scarlet, and looked immediately at her inhuman
employer, who, catching the contagion, replied with evident marks of
confusion:

'Her name is Biddy Bullen, s