Her father's name was Westbrook; he was a scene-painter, a thriftless ne'er-do-weel, whose intemperate habits had brought them to poverty and broken his wife's heart; but in his sober moments he was good to the child, and she certainly seemed devoted to him." "Oh dear, how sad it sounds, Malcolm!" "My dear, it was far sadder in reality.

Think of that lonely little creature, with no one to guide and befriend her except the woman of the house." "In her rough way Mrs.Parker kept watch over the child, but she had children of her own and a sick husband, and had to drudge and slave for her family and lodgers from morning until night.

Oh, I must tell you her answer to a well-meaning district visitor one day, Anna.

The lady had just said very sweetly, 'It is so good for us to count our blessings, Mrs.Parker; we are so apt to forget our thanksgivings.'" "'Humph,' returned Mrs.Parker, 'I don't reckon that I shall take long in counting mine--unless backaches and singing in your ears are amongst them.

But then we have got something to look forward to in t'other world--there'll be no wash-tubs and no district visitors there, with their texts and high-falutin' nonsense.'" Anna laughed merrily.