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In a by-street not far from the mansion of the Claremont's, in a miserable basement, which always, however, bore the marks of tidiness though not of comfort within, might have been seen the other extremes of human life;—poverty without a ray of hope to cheer it; childhood without a smile of joy to welcome it.

Amelia Crawford was two years older than Rosalind, but so pinched was she by want, so stunted in growth, so passionless for want of the little attentions necessary for the healthy expansion of the child's nature, that she seemed more than two years younger.

Her mother had drained the dregs of the terrible cup of suffering presented by the demon of intemperance, rendered still more bitter by the injustice of the law which consigned to the husband the sole control of his wife's person and property.

Surrounded at home by all that could make life joyous and hopeful, she knew no more of its respon-