Happy are those who enjoy a measure of tenderness during their early years of life, and then some peace and tranquility during their maturity! They can write at leisure and with a clear mind, about past sorrows and memories added to their comfortable reality, and they can add joy and color to the chapters of their autobiographies. However, my dear reader, I am far from that. Alas! How many times, when describing some of the misery and wretchedness of the past, has my heart been squeezed and choked with great sorrow. A treacherous and deceitful world! It had never occurred to me, not once, while in my father's house, surrounded by the most luxurious and expensive means of comfort on earth, that one day I would find myself outcast, isolated, and lacking the simplest necessities of life!