idence about my means) took me to
task for crying, telling me that I ought to thank God for what had
happened, which was like a message from heaven, look you, and a
dispensation of Providence.

I tried to see things in that light, though it was difficult to do so,
for the darker my prospects grew the more radiant shone the light of the
little angel by whose life I lived, and the harder it seemed to live
without her.

"But it isn't like losing my child altogether, is it?" I said.

"'Deed no, and 'twill he better for both of you," said my landlady.

"Although Ilford is a long way off I can go there every day, can't I'!"

"'Deed thee can, if thee'st not minding a journey of nine miles or
more."

"And if I can get a good situation and earn a little money I may be able
to have baby back and hire somebody to nurse her, and so keep her all to
myself."

"And why shouldn't thee?" said my Welsh landlady. "Thee reading print
like the young minister and writing letters like a copybook!"

So in the fierce bravery of motherly love I dried my eyes and forced
back my sobs, and began to pack up my baby's clothes, and to persuade
myself that I was still quite happy.

My purse was very low by this time. After paying my rent and some other
expenses I had only one pound and a few shillings left.

NINETY-SECOND CHAPTER

At half past seven next morning I was ready to start on my journey.

I took a hasty glance at myself in the glass before going out, and I
thought my eyes were too much like the sky at daybreak--all joyful beams
with a veil of mist in front of them.

But I made myself believe that never since baby was born had I been so
happy. I was sure I was doing the best for her. I was also sure I was
doing the best for myself, for what could be so sweet to a mother as
providing for her child?

My Welsh landlady had told me it was nine miles to Ilford, and I had
gathered that I could ride all the way in successive omnibuses for less
than a shilling. But shillings were scarce with me then, so I determined
to walk all the way.

Emmerjane, by her own urgent entreaty, carried baby as far as the corner
of the Bayswater Road, and there the premature little woman left me,
after nearly smothering baby with kisses.

"Keep straight as a' arrow and you can't lose your wye," she said.

It was one of those beautiful mornings in late July when the air is
fresh and the sun is soft, and the summer, even in London, has not yet