in a week, and nine hundred and
ninety in the eleven months she has been with us. Then, for baby, there
is Dr. Bates's bill of forty-five guineas, two guineas for christening,
twenty for a grand christening supper and ball (rich uncle John mortally
offended because he was made godfather, and had to give baby a silver
cup: he has struck Thomas out of his will: and old Mr. Firkin quite as
much hurt because he was NOT asked: he will not speak to me or Thomas
in consequence) twenty guineas for flannels, laces, little gowns, caps,
napkins, and such baby's ware: and all this out of 300L. a year! But
Thomas expects to make A GREAT DEAL by his farm.

"We have got the most charming country-house YOU CAN IMAGINE: it is
QUITE SHUT IN by trees, and so retired that, though only thirty miles
from London, the post comes to us but once a week. The roads, it must be
confessed, are execrable; it is winter now, and we are up to our knees
in mud and snow. But oh, Eliza! how happy we are: with Thomas (he has
had a sad attack of rheumatism, dear man!) and little Bobby, and our
kind friend Dr. Bates, who comes so far to see us, I leave you to
fancy that we have a charming merry party, and do not care for all the
gayeties of Ranelagh.

"Adieu! dear baby is crying for his mamma. A thousand kisses from your
affectionate

"SUSAN STUBBS."

There it is! Doctor's bills, gentleman-farming, twenty-one pints of
porter a week. In this way my unnatural parents were already robbing me
of my property.

FEBRUARY.--CUTTING WEATHER.

I have called this chapter "cutting weather," partly in compliment to
the month of February, and partly in respect of my own misfortunes,
which you are going to read about. For I have often thought that January
(which is mostly twelfth-cake and holiday time) is like the first four
or five years of a little boy's life; then comes dismal February, and
the working-days with it, when chaps begin to look out for themselves,
after the Christmas and the New Year's heyday and merrymaking are over,
which our infancy may well be said to be. Well can I recollect that
bitter first of February, when I first launched out into the world and
appeared at Doctor Swishtail's academy.

I began at school that life of prudence and economy which I have carried
on ever since. My mother gave me eighteenpence on setting out (poor
soul! I thought her heart would break as she kissed me, and bade God
bless me); and, besides, I had a small ca