and take the girl and
the other baggage at the same time." "Agreed--she shall be ready."

It would be hard to describe little Margaret's feelings during the
preceding dialogue: she plainly saw that there was no escape for her,
unless she rushed into the street, and claimed the protection of any
chance passer-by, and that honest Smith took pains to prevent, by
locking her up in her room. When there alone, she threw herself down
upon the bed, and sobbed as if her heart would break: "If my mother, my
dear, dear mother, was living, _she_ would take care of me. She would
not let me stay in this filthy place--she would not let me eat dry bread
and water--she would not let that ugly old man take me away, to do
servants' work. Oh mother! mother! I wish I were dead too!" When her
passion of grief was exhausted, comfort and hope began to dawn upon her,
and she thought, "It cannot certainly be as bad in the country, where
the old man lives, as here, in this vile hole, with all these disgusting
smells and sights. And my mother said, that God is a friend who can
never die or change, who will never leave or forsake the poor orphan. I
will try to be a better child, and then God will love me: perhaps I
deserve this, for being naughty. I certainly will try to be good."

In the afternoon, Jackson came for his baggage, as he called it, and
after the furniture was stowed away, Smith brought down the little girl,
and gave into her hand a very small bundle of clothes, bidding her tell
no tales, or she should find she was in his power yet. She was put into
the wagon, on top of the furniture, and the old man, whose face was red,
and whose breath smelt of liquor, set off at a smart pace. It was late
in the evening before they reached the solitary and desolate farm-house,
which Jackson called his home: Margaret scrambled out as best she could,
and entered the dwelling. Although it was now late in the autumn, there
was no fire upon the hearth, and the room looked to the last degree
dismal. It had something more of a habitable aspect when the furniture
was brought in, but it was evident that no "neat-handed Phillis" had
been accustomed to range through the house; and the spiders had provided
the only ornaments to be found anywhere about, by hanging the walls with
tapestry, which certainly could not be produced in the looms of France.
Margaret found that there were two other inhabitants of this neglected
house--Jackson's wife, a sad, heart-broken