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I. Born in the Workhouse
In a certain town in England, which does not need a name in this story, there was a workhouse. It was a large, cold building where the parish kept people who had no money, no home and no family to help them. One night a baby boy was born there, and for a long time nobody was sure that he would live. He lay on a thin mattress and fought for every breath. An old woman who had drunk too much beer sat by the fire, and the parish doctor waited without much interest.
At last the baby took a deep breath, sneezed and began to cry loudly. When the young mother heard him, she lifted her pale face from the pillow.
“Let me see the child, and die,” she said in a weak voice.