My father’s life had helped many men who had never seen or met him. Well if I, a woman, could in some lesser manner help some lone, struggling women who, like myself, after being reared in wealth, suddenly found themselves forced to toil for those “little luxuries” which to a refined woman are verily the necessaries of life, I too might be of use. The Society bride who went to Ascot on a drag; to Ranelagh, Hurlingham, or Sandown in her husband’s buggy, or drove her own Park phaeton and pair; the pampered, spoilt, well-dressed young wife, who only lived for a “good time,” at one fell swoop lost all. A hard school—more kicks than halfpence—and yet now it is passed one is almost thankful for the experience, thankful for each link in the chain so often welded with fire and tears. Two things made life possible—ambition for one’s children and the kindly hand of friendship—two most precious pearls in the diadem of life. These, and a mother’s devotion and encouragement. That hard time of Egyptian slavery is over; my thirteen years’ task is ended. The widow’s cruse may run low, but need not be empty if she has health and courage to work; yes, work, work, and still keep on working. Only let me deplore the unfortunate circumstances that allow the possibilities of widows and children left to battle with the world, without sufficient means for a home and education after being born in luxury. * * * * * I won’t attempt to write my memoirs, but just jot down a few odds and ends before they slip my memory. Memory is an excellent institution, and often assertive until one begins to write. Then nasty little doubts have a way of creeping in, doubts about dates, spelling of names, the actual perpetrator of a certain cute act, or the inception of a particular thought. Each year fills memory’s slate more full, and the older markings become gradually obliterated as new pencillings take their place. Poor old slate, let me see if I cannot decipher a few stray remembrances before they are all rubbed out—and recall how I began to write. Thirteen years. What does the title mean? It does not refer to a prison sentence, to supposed ill-luck as a fateful sign which a modern club of thirteen members is said to have put to the test, nor to anything romantic. Like Nansen, I am not superstitious. He was the head of twelve men on his Polar expedition, and his was the most successful one ever carried through, for he never lost a man. They started a party of thirteen and they returned a party of thirteen—an antidote to the superstition originated by the treachery of Judas. Thirteen years is a large lease of existence during which to hire one’s self out a bond-slave. But that is what I did—perforce. Necessity is a hard taskmaster; and necessity plied the lash.