et work, or that I should get it
immediately, the only open question being what work and where.

Hitherto I had thought that, being quick with my pen, I might perhaps
become secretary to somebody; but now, remembering the typist's story
("firms don't like it"), and wishing to run no risks in respect of my
child, I put that expectation away and began to soar to higher things.

How vain they were! Remembering some kind words the Reverend Mother had
said about me at the convent (where I had taken more prizes than Alma,
though I had never mentioned it before) I told myself that I, too, was
an educated woman. I knew Italian, French and German, and having heard
that some women could make a living by translating books for publishers
I thought I might do the same.

Nay, I could even write books myself. I was sure I could--one book at
all events, about friendless girls who have to face the world for
themselves, and all good women would read it (some good men also),
because they would see that it must be true.

Oh, how vain were my thoughts! Yet in another sense they were not all
vanity, for I was not thinking of fame, or what people would say about
what I should write, but only what I should get for it.

I should get money, not a great deal perhaps, yet enough for baby and
me, that we might have that cottage in the country, covered with
creepers and roses, where Isabel would run about the grass by and by,
and pluck the flowers in the garden.

"So what have _you_ got to cry about, you ridiculous thing," I thought
while I hurried along, with a high step now, as if my soul had been in
my feet.

But a mother's visions of the future are like a mirage (always gleaming
with the fairy palaces which her child is to inhabit some day), and I am
not the first to find her shadows fade away.

I must have been walking for some time, feeling no weariness at all,
when I came to the bridge by Bow Church. There I had intended to take a
tram, but not being tired I went on farther, thinking every stage I
could walk would be so much money to the good.

I was deep in the Mile End Road, when a chilling thought came to me. It
was the thought of the distance that would divide me from my child,
making my visits to her difficult, and putting it out of my power to
reach her quickly (perhaps even to know in time) if, as happened to
children, she became suddenly and dangerously ill.

I remembered the long line of telescoping thoroughfares I had pas