Time's march moves slowly, where weary lives languish in dull
places.

Dating from one unkempt and unacknowledged birthday to another,
Sydney Westerfield had attained the sixth year of her martyrdom
at School. In that long interval no news of her mother, her
brother, or her stepfather had reached England; she had received
no letter, she had not even heard a report. Without friends, and
without prospects, Roderick Westerfield's daughter was, in the
saddest sense of the word, alone in the world.



The hands of the ugly old clock in the school-room were
approaching the time when the studies of the morning would come
to an end. Wearily waiting for their release, the scholars saw an
event happen which was a novelty in their domestic experience.
The maid-of-all-work audaciously put her head in at the door, and
interrupted Miss Wigger conducting the education of the
first-class.

"If you please, miss, there's a gentleman--"

Having uttered these introductory words, she was reduced to
silence by the tremendous voice of her mistress.

"Haven't I forbidden you to come here in school hours? Go away
directly!"

Hardened by a life of drudgery, under conditions of perpetual