old. My birthday fell last month. Scarcely older, that might seem, than a girl; but I have been a woman for such a long time now that I can hardly believe I ever was a girl,—a mere girl, with nothing to think about or to worry about. You see, even before my father fell sick—even before I was twelve years old—I had to be almost a woman; and after that I had to be wholly one. My father used to play the flute in the theatre; but when I was twelve years old he got a cough, and could not play any more: so then I had to earn a living for both of us. But even before he got the cough he had needed a great deal of care: I had had to be more like a mother than like a daughter to him. He was so forgetful and absent-minded that I always had to be looking after him, and making him remember the things he ought to do. I always had to see that he wrapped himself up when it was cold, and that he took his umbrella with him when it rained, and—just think!—when he would start for the theatre I always had to remind him not to forget his flute! Then, besides, there was the housekeeping,—the marketing, the cooking, the sweeping, the dusting, the mending,—all these: so that, as I have said, even before I was twelve years old I had plenty to do and plenty to be anxious about.
But afterwards,—after he began to cough, and had to give up playing,—then, added to the other things, there was our living to be earned somehow. Oh, I wasn't afraid of work. I did everything I could do,—everything that would bring in a little money. In the daytime I would run errands for people, or I would give out circulars in the street,—yes, once for a whole week I gave out circulars every day,—and in the evening I would sell opera-books in front of the Academy of Music, or flowers in front of the theatre. I used to sell flowers on Sunday, too,—on Fifth Avenue, just below Madison Square. In these ways I almost always earned enough to buy our food and to pay our rent. The medicines he needed they gave us at the Dispensary. And if, as it sometimes happened in spite of all I could do, if I found that I had not earned enough, I would take something to the pawn-shop (my mother had left a little jewelry,—a few ear-rings, a breast-pin or two, a coral necklace),—I would take something to the pawn-shop, and so eke out what was wanting. This I had to do secretly,—without letting my father know. He had grand ideas of pride, my poor father, and would never have digested his supper had he known that it was paid for with money borrowed from the pawn-shop. It made me feel almost like a thief when I would do this; but what else was there to be done?
I have told you—haven't I?—that on Sunday I used to sell flowers on Fifth Avenue near Madison Square. I used to stand on the corner
