"Sit up to the table, children, breakfast's ready."

The speaker was a woman of middle age, not good-looking in
the ordinary acceptation of the term, but nevertheless she looked
good. She was dressed with extreme plainness, in a cheap calico;
but though cheap, the dress was neat. The children she addressed
were six in number, varying in age from twelve to four. The oldest,
Harry, the hero of the present story, was a broad-shouldered, sturdy
boy, with a frank, open face, resolute, though good-natured.

"Father isn't here," said Fanny, the second child.

"He'll be in directly. He went to the store, and he may stop as he
comes back to milk."

The table was set in the center of the room, covered with a coarse
tablecloth. The breakfast provided was hardly of a kind to tempt
an epicure. There was a loaf of bread cut into slices, and a dish
of boiled potatoes. There was no butter and no meat, for the family
were very poor.

The children sat up to the table and began to eat. They were
blessed with good appetites, and did not grumble, as the majority
of my readers would have done, at the scanty fare. They had not
been accustomed to anything better, and their appetites were not
pampered by indulgence.