We have walked here from Liverpool, where I had just buried her mother.

God help me! God help us both! Many a weary mile, sir, and never sure of supper or bed.

The birds of the air have nests, the beasts of the field a shelter, the fox a hole, but my beautiful and fragile girl, only four years old, sir, is houseless and homeless.

Her mother died of consumption, sir, and I live in mortal fear; for now she is beginning to cough, and I can not give her proper nourishment.

Often on this fatal journey I have felt her shiver, and then I have taken off my coat and wrapped it round her, and her beautiful eyes have looked up in mine, and seemed to plead for the warmth and food I'd sell my soul to give her." "Poor fellow," said Bartley; "I suppose I ought to pity you.