Stays and gloves

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I had just reached the age of ten when my father died. At this period we lived in a nice-looking house. But the quarter bears that stamp of poverty which is all-prevailing in the East-End of London. The dwelling is in Shepherdess Walk, close to the City Road.

I went regularly to the district-school and was reputed a bad scholar. The master was kind, although we found his haughty manner very trying. He was content to go through his lessons. If he asked a question or made an observation, he did so briefly, in a manner devoid alike of politeness and roughness. Never did I see him in a temper. He rarely rebuked and struck more rarely still. On these latter occasions, it was a rap with the ruler upon the fingers as he passed. And he did not pause either to console or to reprimand the weeping child whom he had hit.

The death of my father brought about great changes. Without being rich, we had been comfortably off. My mother was always ill at ease in this quarter of poor people, she with her prettiness, refinement and distinction. She was also still young, for she was not quite eighteen years old when she brought me into the world. After my father's funeral, my first recollection is the visit of a gentleman who was on very familiar terms with my mother,and me although I had never seen him previously. Alfter my father's death he was a daily caller. Sometimes he took my mother on his knees arid kissed and caressed her. At these moments the faces of both were very red. At times she would seize hold of his arm and with a movement of her eyes make signs towards me. But the gentleman would laugh and reply:

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