hat night she pondered her purpose: and the more she considered,
the more sure she was that it was right. "I might," thought she, "get
maintained by charity, no doubt: I might call on any of the clergymen of
this place, and the rich people. Or I might walk into the shops and tell
my story, and I dare say the people would give me food and clothes. And,
if it was a temporary distress, I would do so. I should think it right
to ask for help, if I had any prospect of work or independence in any
way. But I have none: and this, I am convinced, points out my duty.
Hopeless cases like mine are those which public charity--legal
charity--is intended to meet. My father little dreamed of this, to be
sure; and the Morells little dream of it at this moment. But when do our
parents and friends, when do we ourselves, dream of what our lot is
really to turn out? Those old notions have nothing to do, if we could
but think so, with the event. Nor has my disgust any thing to do with my
duty. The plain fact is, that I am growing old--that I am nearly
helpless--that I am cold and hungry, and nearly naked--that I have no
friends within reach, and no prospect whatever. I am, therefore, an
object for public charity, and I will ask for what is my due. I am
afraid of what I may find in the workhouse;--the vicious people, the
dirty people, the diseased people,--and, I suppose, not one among them
who can give me any companionship whatever.

"It is dreadful; but it can't be helped. And the worse the case is about
my companions--my fellow-paupers--(for I must learn to bear the
word)--the greater are the chances of my finding something to do for
them;--something which may prevent my feeling myself utterly useless in
the world. This is not being wholly without prospect, after all. I
suppose nobody ever is. If it were not so cold now, I could sleep upon
mine."

It was too cold for sleep; and when, in the morning, she offered her old
shawl in payment for her bed, assuring the poor old woman who let it
that she should not want the shawl, because she was going to have other
clothes, the woman shook her head sorrowfully,--her lodger looked so wan
and chilled. She had no fear that there was any thought of suicide in
the case. No one could look in Miss Smith's sensible face, and hear her
steady, cheerful voice, and suppose that she would do any thing wild or
impatient.

"Who is that woman with a book in her hand?" inquired the visiting
Commissioner, some mo