After my father's death, our way of living, never
luxurious, grew more and more frugal. Now and then I heard
mysterious allusions to "the wolf at the door": and it was
whispered that, to escape him, we might all have to turn our
backs upon the home where we were born, and find our safety in
the busy world, working among strangers for our daily bread.
Before I had reached my tenth year I began to have rather
disturbed dreams of what it might soon mean for me to "earn my
own living."
VII.
BEGINNING TO WORK.
A CHILD does not easily comprehend even the plain fact of death.
Though I had looked upon my father's still, pale face in his
coffin, the impression it left upon me was of sleep; more
peaceful and sacred than common slumber, yet only sleep. My
dreams of him were for a long time so vivid that I would say to
myself, "He was here yesterday; he will be here again to-morrow,"
with a feeling that amounted to expectation.
We missed him, we children large and small who made up the yet
untrained home crew, as a ship misses the man at the helm.
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