Other changes were made, but not in the direction I desired. Like a whirlpool, London was drawing us nearer and nearer to its depths, and by the time I was twelve years of age we were nearly at the bottom of the hill down which we had been steadily going. My clothes were very much patched and mended now; all our furniture was sold, and we were living in one room, which was rented to us ready furnished. The knowledge of the struggle in which my mother was engaged loomed gradually upon me, and distressed me in a vague manner. We were really now in London, although not in the heart of the City; and my mother, whose needle brought us bread and very little butter, often walked four miles to the workshop, and four miles back, on a fruitless errand. Things were getting worse and worse with us. My mother grew thinner and paler, but she never looked at me without a smile on her lips--a smile that was often sad, but always tender. At night, while she worked, she taught me to read and write; there was no free school near us, and she could not afford to pay for my learning. But no schoolmaster could have taught me as well as she did. She had a thin, sweet voice, and often when I was in bed I fell asleep with her singing by my side. I used to love to lie thus peacefully with closed eyes, and float into dreamland upon the wings of her sweet melodies. I woke up sometimes late in the night, and saw her dear face bending over her work. It was always meek and cheerful; I never saw anger or bad passion in it. 'Mother,' I said one night, after I had lain and watched her for a long time. She gave a start. 'Dear child; I thought you were asleep.' 'So I have been; but I woke up, and I've been watching you for a long, long time. Mother, when I am a man I shall work for you.' 'That's right, dear. You give me pleasure and delight. I know my good boy will try to be a good man.' 'I will try to; as good as you are. I want to be like you. Could I not work now, mother?' 'No, dear child; you are not strong enough yet.' 'I wish I could grow into a strong man in a night,' I thought. My mother came to the bedside and rested her fingers upon my neck. What tenderness dwells in a loving mother's touch! I imprisoned her fingers in mine. She leant towards me caressingly and kissed me. Sleep stole upon me in that kiss of love. I saw a picture in a shop window of a girl whose bright fresh face brought my mother's face before me. But the girl's face was full of gladness, and her cheeks were glowing; my mother's cheeks were sunken and wan. Still the likeness was unmistakably there, and I thought how much I should love to see my mother as bright as this bright girl. I spoke to her about it, and she went to see the picture, which was in the next street to ours. She came back smiling. 'It _is_ like me, Chris,' she said; 'as I was once.' 'Then you must have been very, very pretty,' I said, stroking her cheek. My mother laughed melodiously.