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living here. It is several days away, but I already dread our final parting, as I know that the chances of our meeting again are very slight indeed.
    There are few things more difficult in life than saying goodbye to people.

Tuesday, 2nd April 1912
St Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls,
Whitechapel
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    Tonight the moon is obscured by fog, so I can barely see to write. Not that my handwriting is admirable under the best of conditions.
    After William left me here at St Abernathy’s, several months passed before we saw each other again. I wondered endlessly where he was, what he was doing, and how he was surviving on his own. Even if he was surviving on his own. Then, one Sunday afternoon, the littlest Murphy sister – there are four of them living here, each more freckled than the next – came to tell me that a young man was waiting to see me in the visiting parlour. At first I was perplexed, since I do not know any young men. Then I was overjoyed, realizing that it could only be my brother.
    I ran out of the library so swiftly that Molly Murphy was left quite startled – and Sister Judith even more so when I dashed slam-bang right into her near the kitchen.
    William was standing by the window, looking out at the grey, rainy day. He was wearing a thin black pullover and frayed wool trousers, with a cloth cap hanging out of one pocket. It was the first time I had ever seen him in long trousers. His face and hands were very clean, but his clothes were soot-stained, and he looked so much more grown-up than I remembered. Sister Eulalia was posted right by the door, with an expression of great suspicion on her face. Girls at the orphanage do not – ever – receive young men. I assume Sister Mary Gregoria was also lurking nearby.
    â€œWilliam!” I said happily.
    He turned, his whole face changing when he smiled. “Sure, and she’s tall. ”
    â€œSure, and we get bowls and bowls of porridge here,” I answered.
    We both laughed, while Sister Eulalia – who often helps with meal preparations – frowned. I introduced them, and after a few moments she went out to sit in the hall to give us a bit of time to catch up.
    There was so much to talk about! I have to admit now that I cried a good deal, because it was so wonderful to see him after worrying for so long.
    He had brought along a small bag of toffee and liquorice, which we shared. I had forgotten I even knew how to smile so broadly. For a time, after we parted, he had miserably continued mud-larking. He tried to find a job at one of the breweries, or the foundry, but was told that he was too young. His luck changed when he ran into one of Father’s old friends, Mr Daniels, on the street one day. Mr Daniels helped him get work on the docks and secure cheap lodgings in a sailors’ home. The home certainly wasn’t fancy, but neither was it a workhouse – or a reformatory – and for that William was grateful. And so was I.
    From then on, he came every Sunday. The weeks passed much more quickly and easily, for me, knowing I could look forward to his visits. He would always bring a gift of some kind – toffee, a newspaper, and one special day, a little bundle of hot chips. I wanted to give him something in return, and Sister Catherine patiently taught me how to knit so I could make him a scarf for his birthday. The final result was amateurish to say the very least, but he accepted it with great enthusiasm.
    It was the summer of 1910 when William got a chance to sign on as a cabin boy on a cargo steamer heading to America. He did not want to leave me alone in London, but we decided that he would have many more opportunities to make his way in the States.
    We planned that I would follow him when I was older – and he had enough money to pay for my fare.
    The captain on his steamer was an unpleasant man, and William had a difficult journey. He worked long, hard hours, and was so seasick that he