My dog knew as well when she was on the turn as I did.  Before she broke out, he would give a howl, and bolt.  How he knew it, was a mystery to me; but the sure and certain knowledge of it would wake him up out of his soundest sleep, and he would give a howl, and bolt.  At such times I wished I was him.

The worst of it was, we had a daughter born to us, and I love children with all my heart.  When she was in her furies she beat the child.  This got to be so shocking, as the child got to be four or five year old, that I have many a time gone on with my whip over my shoulder, at the old horse’s head, sobbing and crying worse than ever little Sophy did.  For how could I prevent it?  Such a thing is not to be tried with such a temper—­in a cart—­without coming to a fight.  It’s in the natural size and formation of a cart to bring it to a fight.  And then the poor child got worse terrified than before, as well as worse hurt generally, and her mother made complaints to the next people we lighted on, and the word went round, “Here’s a wretch of a Cheap Jack been a beating his wife.”

Little Sophy was such a brave child!  She grew to be quite devoted to her poor father, though he could do so little to help her.  She had a wonderful quantity of shining dark hair, all curling natural about her.  It is quite astonishing to me now, that I didn’t go tearing mad when I used to see her run from her mother before the cart, and her mother catch her by this hair, and pull her down by it, and beat her.

Such a brave child I said she was!  Ah! with reason.

“Don’t you mind next time, father dear,” she would whisper to me, with her little face still flushed, and her bright eyes still wet; “if I don’t cry out, you may know I am not much hurt.  And even if I do cry out, it will only be to get mother to let go and leave off.”  What I have seen the little spirit bear—­for me—­without crying out!

Yet in other respects her mother took great care of her.  Her clothes were always clean and neat, and her mother was never tired of working at ’em.  Such is the inconsistency in things.  Our being down in the marsh country in unhealthy weather, I consider the cause of Sophy’s taking bad low fever; but however she took it, once she got it she turned away from her mother for evermore, and nothing would persuade her to be touched by her mother’s hand.  She would shiver and say, “No, no, no,” when it was offered at, and would hide her face on my shoulder, and hold me tighter round the neck.

The Cheap Jack business had been worse than ever I had known it, what with one thing and what with another (and not least with railroads, which will cut it all to pieces, I expect, at last), and I was run dry of money.  For which reason, one night at that period of little Sophy’s being so bad, either we must have come to a dead-lock for victuals and drink, or I must have pitched the cart as I did.

I couldn’t get the dear child to lie down or leave go of me, and indeed I hadn’t the heart to try, so I stepped out on the footboard with her holding round my neck.  They all set up a laugh when they see us, and one chuckle-headed Joskin (that I hated for it) made the bidding, “Tuppence for her!”