I am sure my father never could have got my letter, or
he would have answered me. I know he would not let me suffer here
in woe and want, if he were aware of my condition."
"Why don't you write again?"
"It is useless."
"Let me write, mother. I will call him dear grandfather, and I am
sure he will send you some money then: perhaps he will send for
us to go to Liverpool, and live in his great house, and have
servants to wait upon us."
"Alas, my child, I have given up all hope of ever seeing him
again in this world. In my letters I confessed my fault, and
begged his forgiveness. He cannot be alive, or I am sure my last
letters would have melted his heart."
"Haven't you any brothers and sisters, mother?"
"I had one sister; and I have written several letters to her, but
with no better success. They may be all dead. I fear they are."
"And your mother?"
"She died when I was young. I know Jane would have answered my
letters if she had received them."
"She was your sister?"
"Yes; she must be dead; and I suppose my father's property must
be in the hands of strangers, covering their floors with soft
carpets, and their tables with nice food, while I lie here in
misery, and my poor child actually suffers from hunger;" and the
afflicted mother clasped her daughter in her arms, and wept as
though her heart would burst.
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