choke me, and I burst into tears. Mr. Sanders seemed much
affected, and putting his handkerchief to his eyes, walked about the
room for some minutes without speaking; then, again approaching me, he
kissed my forehead.

'Farewell, my dear child,' said he. 'I wish it was in my power to keep
you, but I have a large family, and Mrs. Sanders is not willing that I
should take you in addition, so farewell, we must part; be a good girl,
and I hope we shall meet again in happier circumstances.'

He then again kissed me, bestowed his benediction upon me, and led me to
the gate. I sobbed out my farewell, and, with the tears streaming down
my face, took my way to the humble dwelling of my nurse. I had nearly
two miles to walk before I reached her cottage. At first I went along
with a slow and deliberate step, thinking upon my parting with Mr.
Sanders, and comparing my lot with that of children who had fathers and
mothers, and weeping at my own destitute situation; for, even among the
children who were in the workhouse, there was not one excepting myself
who had not relations who came occasionally to see them, and to whom
they looked up for some sort of protection, while I was a poor little
outcast in society, not knowing one creature in the whole world to whom
I could say I was related. Mr. Sanders and my nurse were the only
persons who seemed to care anything about me; and even these, my only
friends, I must leave, and go and live among strangers. These thoughts
made me very melancholy, and, though this second part of my journey was
the shortest, yet I was nearly an hour in walking it. At last I saw the
cottage, and, quickening my pace, I arrived there tired and out of
spirits.

The good woman received me kindly, and placing me near the fire, gave me
a basin of broth, with plenty of bread in it. After I had taken this
refreshment, which I greatly needed, she began asking me a variety of
questions, and by degrees I gave her the history of all that had
happened to me from the time I had left her house, for since that time I
had never had an opportunity of saying more to her than a few words when
we happened to meet at the church.

'Poor child,' said she, when I concluded, 'I was afraid you would not be
comfortable, for Mrs. Dawson is a woman of a very bad temper; but she
does make the girls good servants, that nobody can deny, and that, I
suppose, is the reason she keeps her place; however, your time is over
with her now, so nev