'Where was your father, then, my dear?'
'I do not know, father was gone, and I have never seen him since.'
The good clergyman asked me many more questions, to try if he could discover who my friends were; but, as I unfortunately could not tell either my own name, or that of any of the great people who had visited us, his enquiries were fruitless, and he closed the conversation by observing, 'that it was a great pity I had not been taught my own name and address.'
[Lady Anne was then taken to an orphan home, where she was treated very harshly by Mrs. Dawson, the matron. Great fun was made of her grand name.]
At last a man and his wife, who had come down from London on a visit to a relation of theirs in the town, having heard of me, came to the school to make their inquiries. I was accordingly ordered to stand up, that they might satisfy their curiosity with gazing at me, while Mrs. Dawson began to boast of all the good qualities I possessed, and some to which I had no claim.
'She is a very delicate looking child,' said the woman from London; 'she looks more like a gentleman's daughter than a parish girl.'
'She is straight, and tall of her age, ma'am,' replied Mrs. Dawson, 'and that gives her a genteelish look; but I assure you she is as strong as a little horse. She will wash and scour with any girl of her age; and, as for her needle, there is not a girl in the school can work as well. Show your work, Lady Anne.'
'Lady Anne!' repeated the Londoner, as she took my work into her hand, 'that is a strange name. What do you call her so for?'