er mind what is past, but look forward to what is
to come. What sort of people are you going to live with?'

'I hardly know,' replied I; 'but their name is Smith, and they live in a
place called the Borough.'

'Do you know what their trade is?'

'They sell umbrellas and shoes, and I am to learn to make the umbrellas,
and that is all I know about them.'

'Well, my dear, I hope that you will be able to do for them, and that
they will be kind to you, and you must trust to Providence for the
discovery of your friends.'

I then drew my father's picture from my bosom, and asked her if she
would fasten it into my stays in such a way that I could wear it without
its being seen.

'Yes, my dear,' said she, 'that I will, and you must mind how I do it,
that, when you have a new pair of stays, you may be able to fasten it
into them in the same manner.'

My stays were then taken off, and the portrait fastened inside of them;
a piece of flannel was then sewed over it, which, being left loose at
one corner, I could, when I had them off, raise it up, and take a view
of the dear likeness. The first sixpence that Mr. Sanders gave me I had
fastened in also, for I was determined never to part with it. This being
done I produced the sixpence he had given me that morning, and the penny
given me by the overseer, and begged the nurse to accept of them.

'No, my dear,' said she, 'I will not take them from you; keep them
yourself, you do not know what you may want when you are in London. You
will not then have anybody to give you a halfpenny should you need it.'

'I will not keep it,' replied I. 'Mr. Sanders told me to spend it, and
if you will not take it I shall leave it upon the table.'

'Well,' said she, 'if it must be spent, I will go and lay it out in tea
and sugar, and give you all a treat, for I suppose you have not tasted
any tea since you have been with Mrs. Dawson.'

'No,' said I, 'not a single drop. How glad I am that you have thought of
letting us have tea.'

My young readers who, perhaps, have tea every day, cannot imagine what a
luxury a little of it is to a poor workhouse child, who never tastes it
but when she is allowed to go out and see her friends. Children in
workhouses have bread and cheese and small-beer about seven o'clock,
which serves them for tea and supper, and I, as I had no friends to go
and see, had not once tasted tea since I left my nurse's, who was a
good-natured woman, and always gave us tea on Sun