“I know it—­I feel it, dear, kind young lady,” replied Alizon, with the colour again mounting her cheeks.  “I have no tie in the world except my family.  But I am persuaded my mother will never allow me to quit her, however great the advantage might be to me.”

“Well, though sorry, I am scarcely surprised at it,” said Dorothy.  “She must love you too dearly to part with you.”

“I wish I could think so,” sighed Alizon.  “Proud of me in some sort, though with little reason, she may be, but love me, most assuredly, she does not.  Nay more, I am persuaded she would be glad to be freed from my presence, which is an evident restraint and annoyance to her, were it not for some motive stronger than natural affection that binds her to me.”

“Now, in good sooth, you amaze me, Alizon!” cried Dorothy.  “What possible motive can it be, if not of affection?”

“Of interest, I think,” replied Alizon.  “I speak to you without reserve, dear young lady, for the sympathy you have shown me deserves and demands confidence on my part, and there are none with whom I can freely converse, so that every emotion has been locked up in my own bosom.  My mother fancies I shall one day be of use to her, and therefore keeps me with her.  Hints to this effect she has thrown out, when indulging in the uncontrollable fits of passion to which she is liable.  And yet I have no just reason to complain; for though she has shown me little maternal tenderness, and repelled all exhibition of affection on my part, she has treated me very differently from her other children, and with much greater consideration.  I can make slight boast of education, but the best the village could afford has been given me; and I have derived much religious culture from good Doctor Ormerod.  The kind ladies of the vicarage proposed, as you have done, that I should live with them, but my mother forbade it; enjoining me, on the peril of incurring her displeasure, not to leave her, and reminding me of all the benefits I have received from her, and of the necessity of making an adequate return.  And, ungrateful indeed I should be, if I did not comply; for, though her manner is harsh and cold to me, she has never ill-used me, as she has done her favourite child, my little sister Jennet, but has always allowed me a separate chamber, where I can retire when I please, to read, or meditate, or pray.  For, alas! dear young lady, I dare not pray before my mother.  Be not shocked at what I tell you, but I cannot hide it.  My poor mother denies herself the consolation of religion—­never addresses herself to Heaven in prayer—­never opens the book of Life and Truth—­never enters church.  In her own mistaken way she has brought up poor little Jennet, who has been taught to make a scoff at religious truths and ordinances, and has never been suffered to keep holy the Sabbath-day.  Happy and thankful am I, that no such evil lessons have been taught me, but rather, that I have profited by the sad example.