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anxiety; but at length remembering that his kind and tender friend was old, and young as he was, concluded that the difference of opinion between him and her, arose solely from the one being old and loving quietness and ease, and the other being young, wishing to hear and see all that was going forward; under which idea, he resolved to forbear mentioning his wishes in future; for though a stranger to art, he knew that it was cruel to make any one unhappy,—a lesson his kind friend had strongly impressed upon his mind,—and surely those we love for their kindness to us should never be made unhappy. The old woman, a short time afterwards died, soothing herself in her last moments with the idea that she had entirely closed the heart of the poor orphan against any wish for a change; and that he would remain where he was, and there be secure from evil.
Whittington felt her loss with the regret of a child for a beloved parent; and having in vain looked round for a friend to supply her place,—"What have I to do here any longer," cried he, "where my grief is unpitied, and my wants unnoticed! where I may die of famine or despair, and no one feel or care what is to become of me?" He therefore spoke to a waggoner
to let him walk by the side of his waggon to London, as the greatest of favours; and the waggoner happening to be a good-natured and thoughtless fellow, consented without once considering what was afterwards to become of him, adding, he might sleep all night in his waggon. Poor Whittington, transported with joy at his good fortune, packed up the little he could call his own in a small bag, which slinging across his shoulders, he set off, and soon began to beat time with his feet to the
