e
that I have seldom quitted the house for an hour, and never have been
out of Fulham."

"Then you have never been at school?"

"O, no--never. I often wish that I had. I used to see the little girls
coming home, as they passed our door, so merrily, with their bags from
the school-house; and I'm sure, if it were only to have the pleasure of
going there and back again for the sake of the run, I'd have worked
hard, if for nothing else."

"Would you like to learn to read and write?"

"Will you teach me?" replied Mary, taking me by the arm, and looking me
earnestly in the face.

"Yes, I will, with pleasure," replied I, laughing. "We will pass the
evening better than making love, after all, especially if you hit so
hard. How came you so knowing in those matters?"

"I don't know," replied Mary, smiling; "I suppose, as father says, it's
human nature, for I never learnt anything; but you will teach me to read
and write?"

"I will teach you all I know myself, Mary, if you wish to learn.
Everything but Latin--we've had enough of that."

"Oh! I shall be so much obliged to you. I shall love you so!"

"There you are again."

"No, no, I didn't mean that," replied Mary, earnestly. "I meant that--
after all, I don't know what else to say. I mean that I shall love you
for your kindness, without your loving me again, that's it."

"I understand you; but now, Mary, as we are to be such good friends, it
is necessary that your father and I should be good friends; so I must
ask you what sort of a person he is, for I know but little of him, and,
of course, wish to oblige him."

"Well then, to prove to you that I'm sincere, I will tell you something;
My father, in the first place, is a very good tempered sort of man. He
works pretty well, but might gain more, but he likes to smoke at the
public-house. All he requires of me is his dinner ready, his linen
clean, and the house tidy. He never drinks too much, and is always
civil spoken; but he leaves me too much alone, and talks too much about
human nature, that's all."

"But he's so deaf--he can't talk to you."

"Give me your hand--now promise--for I'm going to do a very foolish
thing, which is to trust a man--promise you'll never tell it again."

"Well, I promise," replied I, supposing her secret of no consequence.

"Well, then--mind--you've promised. Father is no more deaf than you or
I."

"Indeed!" replied I; "why, he goes by the name of Deaf Stapleton?"

"I k