CHAPTER I.

FOUR YEARS OLD.


In all England there is not a prettier village than Wavertree. It has no
streets; but the cottages stand about the roads in twos and threes, with
their red-tiled roofs, and their little gardens, and hedges overrun with
flowering weeds. Under a great sycamore tree at the foot of a hill
stands the forge, a cave of fire glowing in the shadows, a favourite
place for the children to linger on their way to school, watching the
smith hammering at his burning bars, and hearing him ring his cheery
chimes on the anvil. Who shall say what mystery surrounds the big smith,
as he strides about among his fires, to the wide bright eyes that peer
in at him from under baby brows, or what meanings come out of his
clinking music to four-year-old or eight-year-old ears?

Little Hetty was only four years old when she stood for five or ten
minutes of one long summer day looking in at the forge, and watching and
listening with all the energy that belonged to her. She had a little
round pink face with large brown eyes as soft as velvet, and wide open
scarlet lips. Her tiny pink calico frock was clean and neat, and her
shoes not very much broken, though covered with dust. Altogether Hetty
had the look of a child who was kindly cared for, though she had neither
father nor mother in the world.

Two or three great strong horses, gray and bay, with thick manes and
tails, came clattering up to the door of the forge, a man astride on one
of them. Hetty knew the horses, which belonged to Wavertree Hall, and
were accustomed to draw the long carts which brought the felled trees