8 Turnaside Cottage.

higher station of life than my father, and that they
had fled from England to this out-of-the-way place
to avoid her relations. But I cannot tell how much
of this is true, for, as I have said, my father never
spoke to me of her, nor, indeed, of anything con-
aected with his past life.

My childhood was not a happy one. As I look
back upon it, it looks grey and lonely and cheerless.
I would not live it over again fora great deal. My
father was not fond of me; I was a shy, plain,
weakly, and fretful child; and he, a strong, handsome
man, was vexed, perhaps, that his only son should
be so unlike himself. I was not a favourite either
with old Nance, or Tinder-and-Flint, as she had
been nicknamed on account of her fiery temper,
always ready to flare up at a touch. Nance was
not fond of children, or, as she expressed it, she did
not think much of ’em; and I, constantly ailing,
and, I am afraid, as constantly fretful, was looked
upon by her as a remarkably disagreeable specimen
of the race. I was afraid both of my father and of
Nance. I can remember crying, all by myself, in a
corner of the cart-shed when I had tumbled down
and hurt myself, or when I felt sick and weary, with
a desolate sense of something wanting, though I
did not know that it was the sunshine of love that
I missed. The only person I knew, besides my