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 Provid