It seemed a matter of perfect indifference to me then what I did, or what became of me,--whether I was henceforth to be a teacher, a seamstress, or a servant.

Every consideration was swallowed in one,--every fear lost in one absorbing dread.

I had but one prayer,--"Let my mother live, or let me die with her!" Poverty offered no privation, toil no weariness, suffering no pang, compared to the one great evil which my imagination grasped with firm and desperate clench.
Three years had passed since I had lain a weeping child under the shadow of the oaks, smarting from the lash of derision, burning with shame, shrinking with humiliation.

I was now fifteen years old,--at that age when youth turns trembling from the dizzy verge of childhood to a mother's guardian arms, a mother's sheltering heart.

How weak, how puerile now seemed the emotions, which three years ago had worn such a majestic semblance.
I was but a foolish child then,--what was I now?
A child still, but somewhat wiser, not more worldly wise.