she has no right kind of name? Lady Anne is so long that I shall
never get it all out.'

'It is no longer than Mary Anne,' replied she; 'and I think if you are a
wise man you will call her by her title and make your children do the
same. If it should be the means of discovering her father, it might put
a pretty sum into your pocket.'

'Why, as for that, it might and it might not; but if it is the girl's
name she shall be called by it, so there's an end to that. And now I
must away to settle my money matters, and I'll come back for the child
about eleven o'clock, so good-bye t'ye for the present.'

Away went the man, leaving Mrs. Williams much pleased with the success
she had met with, as she said she had not a doubt but Mr. Freeman would
engage me when he knew it was one of his best customers that asked the
favour. I was much pleased too, for, as I could not stay with Mrs.
Williams, I did not venture to form a higher wish than to be engaged at
Mr. Freeman's, for my spirits had been so much broken during my stay at
Smith's that I no longer dared to indulge the hope of ever finding my
father.

About eleven o'clock my new friend, John Davis, came for me. Taking my
little bundle under his arm, he conducted me to his cart. He lifted me
in, and putting his horses into motion, we went shaking and rattling
through the streets. This part of the journey was disagreeable enough;
but when, at Knightsbridge, we entered the turnpike-road, then it began
to be very pleasant. A complete thaw had succeeded to the frost; the
fields and hedges looked green, and the air was as soft and mild as if
it had been spring. I was seated on a truss of hay in the corner of the
cart, and as we rode slowly along my spirits seemed to revive, and I
once more indulged the pleasing hope of finding my father; then, again,
as we advanced, my hope was damped by fear lest Mr. Freeman would not
engage me, or lest Mrs. Davis should refuse to let me be at her house. I
continued in this agitation of mind during the time of our little
journey. At last we stopped at a cottage by the roadside, at a small
distance from Turnham Green. John Davis lifted me out of the cart and
led me into the house, where we were received by a woman, whom I
immediately found was his wife.

'You are late to-day,' said she; 'and, pray, who is this you have
brought with you?'

He took his seat near the fire (while I remained standing near the
door), and briefly related my story to he