On the first day of the month of December, in the year
18—, and just at sunrise, a child was going along one of
the lower streets of the city of Richmond—in the quarter
called, for some reason, “Bird-in-Hand”—her poorly-clad
figure brilliantly illuminated by the morning sunlight
raining its gold upon the chill houses and cold pavements,
her shoulders unconsciously shrinking from the bitter
wind.

She was a child of ten or eleven: she was poor: she
was called Ellie.

But we shall not dismiss our heroine—who is destined
to color, more or less, every page of this book—in a manner
so hasty and unsatisfactory. The child had the finest
brown hair in the world; and this hair waved, rather than
curled, around a countenance from which a pair of large

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blue eyes, full of sweetness and goodness, looked into your
face with the softest and most confiding simplicity. The
lips were somewhat sad it is true, and they wore that expression
which seems to indicate suffering at times;—but
this expression was by no means marked or striking—
and a careless observer would have said that the face of
the child was in powerful contrast with her poor and dilapidated
clothing. This clothing consisted of an old
hood of wadding, discolored by the sun and wind of years—
a thin frock of the cheapest and commonest material,
and a shawl of the same description—while her feet were
scarcely covered by her thin worn shoes, which the chill of
the pavement penetrated at every step. The child, in a
word, looked poverty-stricken, but quite content and hopeful,
and the sweet face was such as any sun might have
been glad to shine upon.

On this morning the sun left no detail in the back-ground—
the red light twinkled on her instep, and lit up
joyously the thin folds of her old worn shawl, and even
plunged back into the hood, and turned the ripples of her
brown hair into gold.

In her hand the child carried an old broken pitcher, and
she had managed to wrap the hand in her old shawl before
grasping the handle, in order to protect that portion
of her person from the biting wind.

It might have been thought that she was going to the
market, which was visible two or three squares away, in a
comparatively splendid quarter of the city, for everything
and everybody seemed to be moving in that direction. It
would seem to be the most reasonable thing in the world,

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that this poor little dilapidated housekeeper should have
been on her way toward those rich realms of hams and
steaks and legs of mutton, toward which the flood poured,
jostling the market-carts, and bewildering the oracularlooking
donkeys who gazed at everything from beneath
their shaggy eyebrows, as they munched their scanty provender
in the stationary carts. But it soon appeared that
this was not the child's intention. She looked wistfully at
the bright, cold, glittering scene—uttered something like a
sigh, and drawing her old shawl more tightly round her
shoulders as the wind beat against them, turned into a
grocery store at the corner.

It was one of those receptacles of everything eatable,
drinkable and wearable, which are generally kept for
the convenience of families buying in small quantities.
The portly landlord of this hostelry was reading his newspaper
by a stove comfortably warmed; and was evidently
of Germanic extraction. This indeed might have been
surmised from the sign or legend inscribed in gilt letters
above the door without—“Schminky, Grocer;”—but a
single look at the actual Schminky at once verified this
view. He was rotund, red and solemn—“lager” was
written in his eyes, and his German pipe was in his hand
ready to be lighted. He was framed like a picture in a
background of hams, flour barrels, strings of onions, and
barrels of beer; and possessed that staid and dignified air
which lords of the manor have possessed in all ages of the
world.

The child came in, and asked in a timid voice if he had
any milk that morning.

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Captain Schminky, for this was his rank, uttered a surly
no, and went on with his paper.

Now, it is quite probable that this circumstance might
have embarrassed a common child; but our little friend
only moved her head very slightly, and quietly went out
closing the door as Captain Schminky lit his pipe.

She turned towards the market and was soon entangled
like a poor flower in its weedy mass. She looked wistfully
at the long rows of “cuts” of all possible descriptions,
which she had now gained a nearer view of; and
this time actually and unmistakeably sighed.

She would have liked to have purchased a little piece of
that tempting meat, or a very few of those attractive looking
vegetables—she scarcely dreamed of the delight of
possessing the finer things daintily spread out for public
admiration;—the child, we say, would have been made
happy by the purchase of the smallest portion of the
enticing stores set forth; but looking at her small coin
sadly, she abandoned any half-formed idea she had con-ceived.

She passed by all the tempting stalls, sought out a milk
cart, and purchased some of the milk. She then crossed
from the market to a baker's shop, and exhausted her whole
stock of money by reducing into possession a small loaf
of bread. She then retraced her steps, drawing her shawl
around her shoulders—passed by the surly grocer's—and
came finally to a sort of hovel, a few steps back from the
mean foot-way.

A low door gave her entrance, and she passed through,
depositing her pitcher and loaf upon an old pine table.

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The room was poor and humble to the last degree, but
was also scrupulously neat. The narrow bed in the corner
was as tidy as hands could make it; and you lost sight
of the old tattered counterpane, if such the covering could
be called, in admiration of the elegance with which it was
arranged. The floor was clean swept, the old broken
chairs—including the one without a leg, and the two without
backs—were set against the wall; and the fire-place—
in which two or three small brands of wood smoked, giving
out an imaginary warmth—had been swept up as carefully
as if it were of marble.

At the foot of the old bed a little door led into a sort
of shed, where, it was reasonable to suppose that the
child had her own bed.

As the girl set down her burden, the door re-opened
behind her, and a little boy, whose clothing was one consolidated
rag from top to toe, made his appearance. He
had a pleasing face, and a shock of yellow curls; but at
the moment his face wore an expression of much discontent.

The girl had said as she came in, “I wonder where
Charley is!” and to these words the child answered:

“Here's Charley, and I wish you'd make haste and giv'
me some breakfus.”

“I will directly, Charley,” the girl said, “we must wait
for Uncle Joe, you know.”

“I wish he'd come on; and I wish you'd make haste,
and not take so long to fix yo'-self in the mornin,” observed
Charley.

“I had to, Charley. Indeed, I had to put on all I had,
and my shawl; it was so cold.”

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“Cold! it ain't cold!”

And Charley shivered and drew near the embers.

The girl made no reply to these querulous words, beyond
saying soothingly, “It will be warm and good when the
sun gets well up, Charley;” and then she betook herself
busily to making some tea, in an old battered can. As
she bent down, the soft brown hair falling around her
pure countenance, was such as any duchess might have
envied; if, indeed, duchesses are not quite above and independent
of nature, in the matter of hair or other personal
decorations. The child had about her a nameless sweetness,
and gentleness too, that was very touching; and it
was a sight for a philosopher to see her now, busying herself
about the few details of the poor meal.

She made the embers burn up after a fashion, boiled
the water, and prepared everything for making tea. She
then placed the stool with three legs close to the fire, such
as it was, and with a smile which was beautiful to see,
said—

“Come, Charley, warm yourself now—Uncle Joe will be
in very soon, you know; he must be through by this
time.”

Charley muttered something in a very ill-humored way,
and without apology or hesitation assumed the warm seat
by the fire.

The girl took one of the high old chairs, to which lofty
elevation very little heat could mount from the low fire,
and drawing an old soiled book from her pocket began to
read in silence.

Fifteen or twenty minutes passed in this way, and the

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girl was still bending over the open page, with a happy
expression in her mild soft eyes, when the door opened
and Uncle Joe came in from his morning round.