But they soon arrived at the fair for which they were bound, the acting went on as usual, and Rosalie had once more to take her place on the stage.

Very dreary and dismal and tawdry everything seemed to her. Her little white dress, the dress in which she had lain by her mother's side, was soiled and tumbled, and the wreath of roses looked crushed and faded, as Rosalie took it from the box There was no mother to fasten it on her hair, no mother to cheer and comfort her as she went slowly up the theatre steps. Her father was looking for her, and told her they were all waiting, and then the play commenced.

Rosalie's eyes wandered up and down the theatre, and she wondered how it was that when she was a very little girl she had thought it so beautiful. It was just the same now as it had been then. The gilding was just as bright, the lamps were just as sparkling, the scenery had been repainted, and was even more showy and striking. Yet it all looked different to Rosalie. It seemed to her very poor and disappointing and paltry, as she looked at it from her place on the stage.

And then she thought of her mother, and of the different place in which she was spending that very evening. Rosalie had been reading about it that afternoon before she dressed herself for the play. She thought of the streets of gold on which her mother was walking—pure gold, not like the tinsel and gilt of the theatre; she thought of the white robe, clean and fair, in which her mother was dressed, so unlike her little tumbled, soiled frock; she thought of the new song her mother was singing, so different from the coarse, low songs that were being sung in the theatre; she thought of the music to which her mother was listening, the voice of harpers harping with their harps, and she thought how different it was from the noisy band close to her, and from the clanging music which her father's company was making. She thought, too, of the words which her mother was saying to the Good Shepherd, perhaps even then: 'Thou art worthy; for Thou wast slain, and hast redeemed me to God by Thy blood:' how different were these words from the silly, foolish, profane words she herself was repeating!

Oh, did her mother think of her? How little Rosalie wondered if she did! And oh, how often she longed to be with her mother in the Golden City, instead of in the hot, wearying theatre!

And so the weeks went on; fair after fair was visited; her father's new play was repeated again and again, till it seemed very old to Rosalie; the theatre was set up and taken down, and all went on much as usual.

There was no change in the child's life, except that she had found a new occupation and pleasure. And this was teaching Toby to read.

'Miss Rosie,' he had said one day, 'I wish I could read the Testament!'

'Can't you read, Toby?'

'Not a word, missie; I only wish I could. I've not been what I ought to be, Miss Rosie; and I do want to do different. Will you teach me?'

And so it came to pass that Rosalie began to teach poor Toby to read. And after that she might often be seen perched on the seat beside Toby, with her Testament in her hand, pointing out one word after another to him as they drove slowly along. And when Toby was tired of reading, Rosalie would read to him some story out of the Bible. But the one they both loved best, and the one they read more often than any other, was the parable of the Lost Sheep. Rosalie was never tired of reading that, nor Toby of hearing it.

There was one thing for which Rosalie was very anxious, and that was to meet little Mother Manikin again. At every fair they visited she looked with eager eyes for the 'Royal Show of Dwarfs'; but they seemed to have taken a different circuit from that of the theatre party, for fair after fair went by without Rosalie's wish being gratified. But at length one afternoon, the last afternoon of the fair, Toby came running to the caravan with an eager face.

'Miss Rosie,' he said, 'I've just found the "Royal Show of Dwarfs." They're here, Miss Rosie; and as soon as I caught sight of the picture over the door, thinks I to myself, "Miss Rosie will be glad." So I went up to the door and spoke to the conductor (they've got a new one, Miss Rosie), and he said they were going to-night, so I ran off at once to tell you—I knew you would like to see little Mother Manikin again.'

'Oh dear!' said the child, 'I am glad.'

'You'll have to go at once, Miss Rosie; they're to start to-night the moment the performance is over; they're due at another fair to-morrow.'

'How was it that you didn't see the show before, Toby?'

'I don't know how it was, Miss Rosie, unless that it's at the very far end of the fair, and I haven't happened to be down that way before. Now, Miss Rosie dear, if you like I'll take you.'

'But I daren't leave the caravan, Toby, and father has the key; it wouldn't be safe, would it, with all these people about?'

'No' said Toby, as he looked down on the surging mass of people, 'I don't suppose it would; you'd have all your things stolen, Miss Rosie.'

'What shall I do?' said the child.

'Well, if you wouldn't mind going by yourself, Miss Rosie, I'll keep guard here.'

Rosalie looked rather fearfully at the dense crowd beneath her; she had never wandered about the fair, but had kept quietly in the caravan, as her mother had wished her to do so; she knew very little of what was going on in other parts of the ground.

'Where is it, Toby?' she asked.

'Right away at the other end of the field, Miss Rosie. Do you hear that clanging noise?'

'Yes,' said Rosalie, 'very well; it sounds as if all the tin trays in the town were being thrown one upon another!'

'That's the Giant's Cave, Miss Rosie, where that noise is, and the Dwarf Show is close by. Keep that noise in your ears, and you will be sure to find it.'

So Rosalie left Toby in the caravan, and went down into the pushing crowd. It was in the middle of the afternoon, and the fair was full of people. They were going in different directions, and it was hard work for Rosalie to get through them. It was only by very slow degrees that she could make her way through the fair.

It was a curious scene. A long row of bright gilded shows was on one side of her, and at the door of each stood a man addressing the crowd, and setting forth the special merits and attractions of his show. First, there were the Waxworks, with a row of specimen figures outside, and their champion proclaiming—

'Ladies and gentlemen, here is the most select show in the fair! Here is amusement and instruction combined! Here is nothing to offend the moral and artistic taste! You may see here Abraham offering up Aaron, and Henry IV. in prison; Cain and Abel in the Garden of Eden, and William the Conqueror driving out the ancient Britons!'

Then, as Rosalie pressed on through the crowd, she was jostled in front of the show of the Giant Boy and Girl. Here there was a great concourse of people, gazing at the huge picture of an enormously fat Highlander, which was hung over the door. There was a curious band in front of this show, consisting of a man beating a drum with his right hand and turning a barrel organ with his left, and another man blowing vociferously through a trumpet. In spite of all this noise, a third man was standing on a raised platform, addressing the crowds beneath.

'I say, I say! now exhibiting, the great Scotch brother and sister, the greatest man and woman ever exhibited! All for twopence; all for twopence! children half-price! You're just in time, you're in capital time; I'm so glad to see you in such good time. Come now, take your seats, take your seats!'

Rosalie struggled on, but another enormous crowd stopped her way. This time it was in front of the show of marionettes, or dancing dolls. On the platform outside the show was a man, shaking a doll dressed as an iron-clad soldier.

'These are not living actors, ladies and gentlemen,' cried the man outside; 'yet if you come inside you will see wonderfully artistic feats! None of the figures are alive, which makes the performance so much more interesting and pleasing. Now's your chance, ladies and gentlemen! now's your chance! There's plenty of room. It isn't often I can tell you so; it is the rarest occurrence, but now there is nice room! Now's your chance!'

Past all these shows Rosalie pushed, longing to get on yet unable to hurry.

Then she came to a corner of the fair where a Cheap Jack was crying his wares.

'Here's a watch,' said the man, holding it up, 'cost two pounds ten! I couldn't let you have it for a penny less! I'll give any one five pounds that will get me a watch like this for two pounds ten in any shop in the town. Come now, any one say two pounds ten?' giving a great slap on his knee. 'Two pounds ten; two pounds ten! Well, I'll tell you what, I'll take off the two pounds—I'll say ten shillings! Come, ten shillings! Ten shillings! Ten shillings! Well, I'll be generous, I'll say five shillings; I'll take off a crown. Come now, five shillings!' This was said with another tremendous slap on his knee. Then, without stopping a moment, he went from five shillings to four-and-sixpence, four shillings, three-and-sixpence. 'Well, I don't mind telling my dearest relation and friend, that I'll let you have it for two-and-six. Come now, two-and-six, two shillings, one-and-six, one shilling, sixpence. Come now, sixpence! Only sixpence!'

On this a boy held out his hand, and became for sixpence the possessor of the watch, which the man had declared only two minutes before he would not part with for two pounds ten shillings!

Rosalie pressed on and turned the corner. Here there was another row of shows: the Fat Boy, whose huge clothes were being paraded outside as an earnest of what was to be seen within; the Lady Without Arms, whose wonderful feats of knitting, sewing, writing, and tea-making were being rehearsed to the crowd; the Entertaining Theatre, outside which was a stuffed performing cat playing on a drum, and two tiny children, of about three years old, dressed up in the most extraordinary costumes, and dancing, with tambourines in their hands; the Picture Gallery, in which you could see Adam and Eve, Queen Elizabeth, and other distinguished persons: all these were on Rosalie's right hand, and on her left was a long succession of stalls, on which were sold gingerbread, brandysnap, nuts, biscuits, cocoa-nuts, boiled peas, hot potatoes, and sweets of all kinds. Here was a man selling cheap walking-sticks, and there another offering the boys a moustache and a pair of spectacles for a penny each, and assuring them that if they would only lay down the small sum of twopence, they might become the greatest swells in the town.

How glad Rosalie was to get past them all, and to hear the clanging sound from the Giant's Cave growing nearer and nearer. And at last, to her joy, she arrived before the 'Royal Show of Dwarfs.' 'Now,' she thought, 'I shall see Mother Manikin.'

The performance was just about to begin, and the conductor was standing at the door inviting people to enter.

'Now, miss,' he said, turning to Rosalie, 'now's your time; only a penny, and none of them more than three feet high! Showing now! Showing now!'

Rosalie paid the money, and pressed eagerly into the show. The little people had just appeared, and were bowing and paying compliments to the company. But Mother Manikin was not there. Rosalie's eyes wandered up and down the show, and peered behind the curtain at the end, but Mother Manikin was nowhere to be seen. Rosalie could not watch the performance, so anxious was she to know if her dear little friend were within. At last the entertainment was over, and the giant and dwarfs shook hands with the company before ushering them out. Rosalie was the last to leave, and when the tall thin giant came up to her, she looked up timidly into his face and said—

'Please, sir, may I see Mother Manikin?'

'Who are you, my child?' said the giant majestically.

'I'm Rosalie, sir,—little Rosalie Joyce; don't you remember that Mother Manikin sat up with my mother when she was ill?'

The child's lips quivered as she mentioned her mother.

'Oh dear me! yes, I remember it; of course I do,' said the giant.

'Of course, of course,' echoed the three little dwarfs.

'Then please will you take me to Mother Manikin?'

'With the greatest of pleasure, if she were here,' said the giant, with a bow; 'but the unfortunate part of the business is that she is not here!'

'No, she's not here,' said the dwarfs.

'Oh dear! oh dear!' said the child, with a little cry of disappointment.

'Very sorry, indeed, my dear,' said the giant. 'I'm afraid I sha'n't do as well?'

'No,' said Rosalie mournfully. 'It was Mother Manikin I wanted; she knew all about my mother.'

'Very sorry indeed, my dear,' repeated the giant 'Very sorry, very sorry!' re-echoed the dwarfs.

'Where is Mother Manikin?' asked the child.

Why, the fact is, my dear, she has retired from the concern. Made her fortune, you see. At least, having saved a nice sum of money, she determined to leave the show. Somehow, she grew tired of entertaining company, and told us "old age must have its liberties."'

'Then where is she?' asked Rosalie.

'She has taken two little rooms in a town in the south of the county; very comfortable, my dear. You must call and see her some day.'

'Oh dear!' said little Rosalie; 'I'm so very, very sorry she is not here!'

'Poor child!' said the giant kindly.

'Poor child! poor child!' said the dwarfs as kindly.

Rosalie turned to go, but the giant waved her back.

'A glass of wine, Susannah!' he said.

'Yes, a glass of wine,' said Master Puck and Miss Mab.

'Oh no,' said the child; 'no, thank you, not for me!'

'A cup of tea, Susannah!' called the giant.

'Oh no,' said Rosalie; 'I must go. Toby is keeping guard for me; I mustn't stay a minute.'

'Won't you?' said the giant reproachfully; 'then goodbye, my dear. I wish I could escort you home, but we mustn't make ourselves too cheap, you know. Good-bye, good-bye!'

'Good-bye, my dear, good-bye!' said Master Puck and Miss Mab.

So Rosalie sorrowfully turned homewards, and struggled out through the surging mass of people. The conductor at the door pointed out to her a shorter way to the theatre caravan. She was glad to get out of the clanging sound of the Giant's Cave, from the platform of which a man was assuring the crowd that if only they would come to this show, they would be sure to come again that very evening, and would bring all their dearest friends with them.

Then the child went through a long covered bazaar, in which was a multitude of toys, wax dolls, wooden dolls, china dolls, composition dolls, rag dolls, and dolls of all descriptions; together with wooden horses, donkeys, elephants, and every kind of toy in which children delight. After this she came out upon a more open space, where a Happy Family was being displayed to an admiring throng.

It consisted of a large cage fastened to a cart, which was drawn by a comfortable-looking donkey. Inside the cage were various animals, living on the most friendly terms with each other—a little dog, in a smart coat, playing with several small white rats, a monkey hugging a little white kitten, a white cat, which had been dyed a brilliant yellow, superintending the sports of a number of mice and dormice; and a duck, a hen, and a guinea-pig, which were conversing together in one corner of the cage. Over this motley assembly was a board which announced that this Happy Family was supported entirely by voluntary contributions; and a woman was going about amongst the crowd shaking a tin plate at them, and crying out against their stinginess if they refused to contribute.

Rosalie passed the Happy Family with difficulty, and made her way down another street in the fair. On one side of her were shooting-galleries making a deafening noise, and on the other were all manner of contrivances for making money. First came machines for the trial of strength, consisting of a flat pasteboard figure of the Shah, or some other distinguished person, holding on his chest a dial-plate, the hand of which indicated the amount of strength possessed by any one who hit a certain part of the machine with all his might.

'Come now! have you seen the Shah?' cried the owner of one of these machines. 'Come now, try your strength! I believe you're the strongest fellow that has passed by to-day! Come now, let's see what you can do!'

The required penny was paid, and there followed a tremendous blow, a tinkling of bells on the pasteboard figure, and an announcement from the owner of the show of the number of stones which the man had moved.

Then there were the weighing-machines, arm-chairs covered with red velvet, in which you were invited to sit and be weighed; there was the sponge-dealer, a Turk in a turban, who confided to the crowd, in broken English, not only the price of his sponges, but also many touching and interesting details of his personal history. There was also the usual gathering of professional beggars, some without arms and legs, others deaf, or dumb, or blind, or all three; cripples and imbeciles and idiots, who go from fair to fair and town to town, and get so much money that they make five or six shillings a day, and live in luxury all the year round.

The child went quickly past them all, and came upon the region of whirligigs, four or five of which were at work, and were whirling in different directions, and made her feel so dizzy that she hardly knew where she was going.

Oh, how glad she was to see her own caravan again!—to get safely out of the restless, noisy multitude, out of the sound of the shouting of the show-people and the swearing of the drunken men and women, and out of the pushing and jostling of the crowd. She thought to herself, as she went up the caravan steps, that if she had her own way she would never go near a fair again; and oh, how she wondered that the people who had their own way came to it in such numbers!

Toby was looking anxiously for her from the caravan window.

'Miss Rosie dear,' he said, 'I thought you were never coming; I got quite frightened about you; you're such a little mite of a thing to go fighting your own way in that great big crowd.'

'Oh, Toby,' said Rosalie, 'I haven't seen Mother Manikin!' and she told him what she had heard from the giant of Mother Manikin's prospects.

'I am sorry,' said Toby. 'Then you have had all your walk for nothing?'

'Yes,' said the child; 'and I never mean to go through the fair again if I can possibly help it—never again!'



CHAPTER XIV

BETSEY ANN

There was still some time before Rosalie need dress herself for the play. She sat still after Toby had left her, thinking over all she had seen in the fair; and it made her very sad indeed. There were such a number of lies being told—she knew there were; such a number of things were being passed off for what they really were not. And then, after all, even if the shows were what they pretended to be, what a poor miserable way it seemed of trying to be happy! The child wondered how many in that moving multitude were really happy.

Rosalie was thinking about this when she heard a sound close to her, a very different sound from the shouting of the cheap-jacks or the noisy proclamations of the showmen. It was the sound of singing. She went to the door of the caravan and looked out. The little theatre was set up at the edge of the fair. Close to the street, and very near the caravan,—so near that Rosalie could hear all they said,—was standing a group of men. One of them had just given out a hymn, and he and all the rest were singing it. The child could hear every word of it distinctly. There was a chorus at the end of each verse, which came so often, that before the hymn was finished she knew it quite perfectly—

'Whosoever will, whosoever will; Sound the proclamation over vale and hill; 'Tis a loving Father calls His children home: Whosoever will may come!'

By the time that they had finished the first verse of the hymn, a great crowd had collected round the men, attracted perhaps by the contrast between that sweet, solemn hymn, and the din and tumult in every other part of the fair.

Then one of the men began to speak.

'Friends,' he said—and as he spoke a great stillness fell on the listening crowd—'Friends, I have an invitation for you to-night; will you listen to my invitation? You are being invited in all directions to-night. Each man invites you to his own show, and tells you that it is the best one in the fair. Each time you pass him, he calls out to you, "Come! come! Come now! Now's your time!"

'My friends, I too have an invitation for you to-night. I too would say to you, "Come! come! Come now! Now's your time!" Jesus Christ, my friends, has sent me with this invitation to you. He wants you to come. He says, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden." He wants you to come now. He says, "Come now, iet us reason together; though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." He says to you, "Now is your time." "Behold," He says, "now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation."

'My friends, this is the invitation; but it is a very different one from the one that man is giving at that show over there. What does he say to those people who are listening to him just now? Does he say, "Here's my show; the door is open, any one who likes may walk in; there's nothing to pay"? Does he say that, my friends? Does he ever give his invitation in that way? No, my friends; he always follows up his "Come, come now! now's your time!" with some such words as these, "Only twopence; only twopence; only twopence to pay! Come now!" And, if you do not produce your twopence, will he let you in?—if you are so poor that you have not twopence in the world, will he say to you, "Come, come now! now's your time"? No, my friends, that he will not.

'Now, the Lord Jesus Christ invites you quite differently. He cries out, "Ho! every one that thirsteth, Come. Come without money! Come without price! Whosoever will may come!" Yes, my friends, the words "Whosoever will" are written over the door which the Lord Jesus Christ wants you to enter. This is one way in which His invitation is quite different from that which that man is giving from the door of the show.

'We will sing another verse of the hymn, and then I will tell you the other great difference between the two invitations.'

So again they sang—

'Whosoever will, whosoever will; Sound the proclamation over vale and hill; 'Tis a loving Father calls His children home; Whosoever will may come!'

My friends,' said the speaker, when the verse was finished, 'there was once in Russia a very curious palace.

It was built of nothing but ice. The walls were ice, and the roof was ice, and all the furniture was ice. There were ice sofas, ice chairs, ice fireplaces, ice ornaments. The water was made different colours, and then frozen, so that everything looked real and solid. At night the palace was lighted up, and it shone and sparkled as if it were set with diamonds. Every one said, "What a beautiful palace!"

'But it did not last, my friends, it did not last. The thaw came, and the ice palace faded away; there was soon nothing left of it but a pool of dirty water. It was all gone; it was very fine for a time; but there was nothing solid in it, and it melted away like a dream.

'My friends, yonder in that fair is the world's ice-palace! It sparkles, it glitters, it looks very fine; but it isn't solid, it won't last. To-morrow it will all be over; it will have melted away like a dream. Nothing will be left but dust, and dirt, and misery. There will be many aching heads and aching hearts this time to-morrow.

'My friends, the world's grandest display is a very disappointing thing after all. And this is the second way in which the Lord Jesus Christ's invitation is so different from that of the man at that show-door. When the Lord Jesus Christ says "Come," He has always something good to give, something that is solid, something that will last, something that will not disappoint you. He has pardon to give you, He has peace to give you, He has heaven to give you. All these are good gifts, all these are solid, all these will last, not one of them will disappoint you.

'Oh, will you come to Him, my friends? He calls to you "Come! come now!" Now's your time! There's room now, there's plenty of room now! Yet there is room; to-morrow it may be too late!

'Will you not come to Him to-night?

'"Whosoever cometh need not delay; Now the door is open: enter while you may; Jesus is the true, the only living way; Whosoever will may come.

'"Whosoever will, whosoever will; Sound the proclamation over vale and hill; 'Tis a loving Father calls His children home; Whosoever will may come!"'

'Rosalie' said her father's voice, 'be quick and get ready' and Rosalie had to close the caravan door and dress for the play. But the hymn and the sermon were treasured up in the child's heart, and were never forgotten by her.

That was the last fair which Augustus Joyce visited that year. The cold weather was coming on; already there had been one or two severe frosts, and the snow had come beating down the caravan chimney, almost extinguishing the little fire.

Augustus thought it was high time that he sought for winter quarters; and, having made an engagement in a low town theatre for the winter months, he determined to go to the town at once, and dismiss his company until the spring.

On the road to the town they passed many other caravans, all bound on the same errand, coming like swallows to a warmer clime.

Rosalie's father went first to an open space or stable-yard, where the caravans were stowed away for the winter. Here he left Rosalie for some time, whilst he went to look for lodgings in the town. Then he and the men removed from the caravans the things which they would need, and carried them to their new quarters. When all was arranged, Augustus told the child to follow him, and led the way through the town.

How Rosalie wondered to what kind of a place she was going! They went down several streets, wound in and out of different squares and courts, and the child had to run every now and then to keep up with her father's long strides. At last they came to a winding street full of tall, gloomy houses, before one of which her father stopped and knocked at the door. Some ragged children, without shoes or stockings, were sitting on the steps, and moved off as Rosalie and her father came up.

The door was opened by a girl about fifteen years old, with a miserable, careworn face, and dressed in an untidy, torn frock, which had lost all its hooks, and was fastened with large white pins.

'Where's your mistress?' said Augustus Joyce.

The girl led the way to the back of the house, and opened the door of a dismal parlour, smelling strongly of tobacco.

Rosalie gazed round her at the dirty paper on the walls, and the greasy chair-covers and the ragged carpet, and was not favourably impressed with her new abode. There were some vulgar prints in equally vulgar frames hanging on the walls; a bunch of paper flowers, a strange mixture of pink and red, blue and green and orange, was standing on the table, and several penny numbers and low periodicals were lying on the chairs, as if some one had just been reading them.

Then the door opened, and the mistress of the house entered. She was an actress, Rosalie felt sure of that the first moment she saw her; she was dressed in a faded, greasy silk dress which swept up the dust of the floor as she walked in, and she greeted her new lodgers with an overpowering bow.

She took Rosalie upstairs, past several landings, where doors opened and people peered out to catch a glimpse of the new lodger, up to a little attic in the roof, which was to be Rosalie's sleeping-place. It was full of boxes and lumber, which the lady of the house had stowed there to be out of the way; but in one corner the boxes were pushed on one side, and a little bed was put up for the child to sleep on, and a basin was set on one of the boxes for her to wash in. Rosalie's own box was already there; her father had brought it up for her before she arrived, and she was pleased to find that it was still uncorded. There were treasures in that box which no one in that house must see!

The lady of the house told Rosalie that in a few minutes her supper would be ready, and that she must make haste and come downstairs. So the child hastily took off her hat and jacket, and went down the numerous stairs to a room in the front of the house, where tea was provided for those lodgers who boarded with the lady of the house.

The child was most thankful when the meal was over. The rude, coarse jests and noisy laughter of the company grated on her ears, and she longed to make her escape. As soon as she could, she slipped from her father's side, and crept upstairs to her little attic. Here at least she could be alone and quiet. It was very cold, but she unfastened the box and took out her mother's shawl, which she wrapped tightly round her. Then she opened out her treasures and stowed them away as best she could. She opened the locket, and looked at the sweet, girlish face inside and oh, how she wished she were with her Aunt Lucy. How would she ever be able to keep that locket safely? that was her next thought. There was no key to the attic door, nor was there a key to her box. How could she be sure, when she was out at the theatre, that the people of the house would not turn over the contents of her box?

It was clear that the locket must be hidden somewhere, for Rosalie would never forgive herself if, after her mother had kept it safely all those years, she should be the one to lose it. She sat for some time thinking how she should dispose of it, and then came to the conclusion that the only way would be to wear it night and day round her neck underneath her dress, and never on any account to let any one catch sight of it. It was some time before she could carry out this plan to her satisfaction. She tied the locket carefully up in a small parcel, in which she placed the precious letter which her mother had written to her Aunt Lucy, and she concealed the packet inside her dress, tying it round her neck.

After this Rosalie felt more easy, and took out her little articles of clothing, and hung them on some nails which she found on the attic door. Then she took from her pocket her own little Testament, and crept up to the window to read a few verses before it was too dark. The light was fast fading, and the lamplighter was going down the street lighting the lamps; there was no time to lose.

So the child opened her book and began to read: 'Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you'—those were the first words which met her eyes. She repeated them over and over again to herself, that she might be able to remember them when the attic was quite dark. And they seemed just the words she needed; they were the Good Shepherd's words of comfort which He whispered to the weary lamb on His bosom.

For, as the shadows grew deeper and the room became darker, Rosalie felt very lonely and miserable. Once she thought she would go downstairs to look for her father; but whenever she opened the door, there seemed to be such a noise and clamour below, that she did not like to venture; she felt as if her mother would have liked her to stay where she was. She could not read now, and it was very cold indeed in the attic. The child shivered from head to foot, and wondered if the long hours would ever pass away. At last she determined to get into bed, for she thought she should be warmer there, and hoped she might get to sleep; but it was still early, and sleep seemed far away.

And then Rosalie thought of her text, 'Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you.' '"All your care,"—that means my care,' thought the weary child,—'my own care. "All your care;" all—all the care about losing my mammie, and about having to stay in this noisy house, and about having to go and act in that wicked theatre, and about having to take care of my locket and my letter.

'"Casting all your care upon Him"—that means my own Good Shepherd, who loves me so. I wonder what casting it on Him means,' thought little weary Rosalie. 'How can I cast it on Him? If my mammie was here, I would tell her all about it, and ask her to help me. Perhaps that's what I've got to do to the Good Shepherd; I'll try.'

So Rosalie knelt up in bed, and said, 'O Good Shepherd, plase, here's a little lamb come to speak to you. Please I'm very lonely, and my mammie is dead, and I'm so afraid someone will get my locket; please keep it safe. And I'm so frightened in the dark in this wicked house; please take care of me. And don't let me get wicked; I want to love you, dear Good Shepherd, and I want to meet my mammie in heaven: please let me; and wish my sins in the blood of Jesus. Amen.'

Then Rosalie lay down again, and felt much happier; the pain at her heart seemed to be gone.

'He careth for you.' How sweet those last words of the text were! She had not her mother to care for her, but the Good Shepherd cared for her; He loved her; He would not let her go wrong.

Rosalie was thinking of this, and repeating her text again and again, when she felt something moving on the bed, and something very cold touched her hand. She started back Blank Page at first, but in a moment she found it was nothing but the nose of a little soft furry kitten, that had crept in through the opening of the door; for Rosalie had left her door a little ajar, that she might get a ray of light from the gas-lamp on the lower landing. The poor little kitten was very cold, and the child felt that it was as lonely and dull as she was. She put it in a snug place in her arms and stroked it very gently, till the tiny creature purred softly with delight.

Rosalie did not feel so lonely after the kitten had come to her. She had been lying still for some time, when she heard a step on the stairs, and her father's voice called—

'Rosalie, where are you?'

'I'm in bed,' said little Rosalie.

'Oh, all light!' said her father. 'I couldn't find you. Good-night.'

Then he went downstairs, and the child was once more alone; she lay stroking the kitten, and wondering if she should ever get to sleep. It was the longest night she ever remembered; it seemed as if it would never be bed-time—at least, the bed-time of the people downstairs; the talking and laughing still went on, and Rosalie thought it would never cease.

But at last the weary hours went by, and the people seemed to be going to bed. Then the light on the landing was put out, and all was quite still. The kitten was fast asleep; and Rosalie at length followed its example, and dropped into a peaceful slumber.

She had been asleep a long, long time, at least so it seemed to her, when she woke up suddenly, and, opening her eyes, she saw a girl standing by her bedside with a candle in her hand, and looking at her curiously. It was the little servant girl who had opened the door for her and her father.

'What is it?' said Rosalie, sitting up in bed; 'is it time to get up?'

'No,' said the girl; 'I'm only just coming to bed.'

'Why, isn't it very late?' asked the child.

'Late? I should think it is late,' said the poor little maid; 'it's always late when I come to bed. I have to wash the pots up after all the others has gone upstairs; ay! but my back does ache to-night! Bless you! I've been upstairs and downstairs all day long.'

'Who are you?' said Rosalie.

'I'm kitchen-maid here,' said the girl; 'I sleep in the attic next you. What did you come to bed so soon for?'

'I wanted to be by myself,' said Rosalie; 'there was such a noise downstairs.'

'La! do you call that a noise? said the girl; 'it's nothing to what there is sometimes; I thought they were pretty peaceable to-night.'

'Do you like being here?' asked the child.

'Like it?' said the girl. 'Bless you! did you say like it? I hate it; I wish I could die. It's nothing but work, work, scold, scold, from morning till night.'

'Poor thing!' said Rosalie. 'What is your name?'

'Betsey Ann,' said the girl, with a laugh; 'it isn't a very pretty name, is it?'

'No,' said the child; 'I don't like it very much.'

'They gave me it in the workhouse; I was born there, and my mother died when I was born, and I've never had a bit of pleasure all my life; I wish I was dead!'

'Shall you go to heaven when, you die?' asked Rosalie.

'La, bless you! I don't know,' said the girl; 'I suppose so.'

'Has the Good Shepherd found you yet?' asked the child; 'because if He hasn't, you won't go to heaven, you know.'

The girl stared at Rosalie with a bewildered air of amazement and surprise.

'Don't you know about the Good Shepherd?' asked the child.

'Bless you! I don't know anything,' said the girl; 'nothing but my A B C.'

'Shall I read to you about it; are you too tired?'

'No, not if it's not very long.'

'Oh, it's short enough; I've got my book under my pillow.'

So Rosalie read the parable of the Lost Sheep; and the girl put down her candle on one of the boxes and listened.

'It's very pretty,' she said, when Rosalie had finished, 'but I don't know what it means.'

'Jesus is the Good Shepherd,' said Rosalie; 'you know who He is, don't you, Betsey Ann?'

'Yes, He's God, isn't He?'

'Yes and He loves you so much,' said the child.

'Loves me?' said Betsey Ann; 'I don't believe He does. There's nobody loves me, and nobody never did!'

'Jesus does,' said Rosalie.

'Well, I never!' said the girl. 'Where is He? what's He like?'

'He's up in heaven,' said Rosalie, 'and yet He's in this room now, and He does love you, Betsey Ann; I know He does.'

'How do you know? did He tell you ?'

'Yes; He says in this book that He loved you, and died that you might go to heaven; you couldn't have gone to heaven if He hadn't died.'

'Bless you! I wish I knew as much as you do,' said the girl.

'Will you come up here sometimes, and I'll read to you?' said Rosalie.

'La! catch missus letting me. She won't let me wink scarcely! I never get a minute to myself, week in week out.'

'I don't know what I can do then,' said Rosalie. 'Could you come on Sunday?'

'Bless you! Sunday? busiest day in the week here; lodgers are all in, and want hot dinners!'

'Then I can't see a way at all,' said Rosalie.

'I'll tell you what,' said the girl; 'I'll get up ten minutes earlier, and go to bed ten minutes later, if you'll read to me out of that little book, and tell me about somebody loving me. Ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night: come, that will be twenty minutes a day!'

'That would be very nice!' said Rosalie.

'But I get up awful soon,' said Betsey Ann, 'afore ever there's a glimmer of light; would you mind being waked up then?'

'Oh, not a bit,' said Rosalie, 'if only you'll come.'

'I'll come safe enough,' said the girl. 'I like you!'

She took up her candle and was preparing to depart when she caught sight of the kitten's tail peeping out from Rosalie's pillow.

'La, bless you! there's that kit!'

'Yes,' said the child; 'we're keeping each other company, me and the kitten.'

'I should think it's glad to have a hit of quiet,' said Betsey Ann; 'it gets nothing but kicks all day long, and it's got no mother—she was found dead in the coal-cellar last week; it's been pining for her ever since.'

'Poor little thing!' said Rosalie; and she held it closer to her bosom; it was a link of sympathy between her and the kitten; they were both motherless, and both pining for their mother's love. She would pet and comfort that little ill-used kitten as much as ever she could.

Then Betsey Ann wished Rosalie good-night, took up her candle, and went to her own attic, dragging her shoes after her.

And Rosalie fell asleep.



CHAPTER XV

LIFE IN THE LODGING-HOUSE

True to her promise, Betsey Ann appeared in the attic the next morning at ten minutes to five. Poor girl, she had only had four hours' sleep, and she rubbed her eyes vigorously to make herself wide awake, before she attempted to wake Rosalie. Then she put down her candle on the box and looked at the sleeping child. She was lying with one arm under her cheek, and the other round the kitten. It seemed a shame to wake her; but the precious ten minutes were going fast, and it was Betsey Ann's only chance of hearing more of what had so roused her curiosity the night before; it was her only opportunity of hearing of some one who loved her.

And to be loved was quite a new idea to the workhouse child. She had been fed, and clothed, and provided for, to a certain extent; but none in the whole world had ever done anything for Betsey Ann because they loved her; that was an experience which had never been hers. And yet there had been a strange fascination to her in those words Rosalie had spoken the night before: 'He loves you so much'—she must hear some more about it. So she gave Rosalie's hand, the hand which was holding the kitten, a very gentle tap.

'I say,' she said—'I say, the ten minutes are going!'

The sleepy child turned over, and said dreamily, 'I'll come in a minute, father; have you begun?'

'No; it's me,' said the girl; 'it's me; it's Betsey Ann. Don't you know you said you would read to me? Bless me! I wish I hadn't waked you, you look so tired!'

'Oh yes, I remember,' said Rosalie, jumping up. I'm quite awake now. How many minutes are there?'

'Oh, seven or eight at most,' said Betsey Ann, with a nod.

'Then we mustn't lose a minute,' said the child, pulling her Testament from under her pillow.

'La! I wish I was a good scholar like you,' said Betsey Ann, as Rosalie quickly turned over the leaves, and found the verse she had fixed on the night before for her first lesson to the poor ignorant kitchen-maid.

'For ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though He was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor, that ye through His poverty might be rich.'

'Isn't that a beautiful verse?' said little Rosalie; 'I used to read it to my mammie, and she liked it so much.'

'Tell me about it,' said Betsey Ann; 'put it plain like for me.'

'"Ye know,"' said Rosalie,—'that's how it begins. You don't know, Betsey Ann, but you will do soon, won't you?'

'La! yes,' said the girl; 'I hope I shall.'

'"Ye know the grace." I'm not quite sure what grace means; I was thinking about it the other day. And now my mammie's dead, I've no one to ask about things; but I think it must mean love; it seems as if it ought to mean love in this verse; and He does love us, you know, Betsey Ann, so we can't be far wrong if we say it means love.'

'"Ye know the love of our Lord Jesus Christ, "—that's the One we talked about last night, the One who loves you, Betsey Ann. "That though He was rich, "—that means He lived in heaven, my mammie said, and had ever so many angels to wait on Him, and everything He wanted, all bright and shining. "Yet for your sakes, "—that means your sake, Betsey Ann, just as much as if it had said, "You know the love of the Lord Jesus Christ, that, though He was rich, yet for Betsey Ann's sake He became poor."'

'Well, I never!' said Betsey Ann.

'Poor,' repeated the child; 'so poor, my mammie said, that He hadn't a house, and had to tramp about from one place to another, and had to work in a carpenter's shop, and used to be hungry just like we are.'

'Well, I never!' said Betsey Ann; 'whatever did He do that for?'

'That's the end of the verse,'said Rosalie. '"That ye through His poverty might be rich." That is, He came to be poor and die, that you might be rich and go to live up where He came from,—up in the City of Gold, and have the angels wait on you, and live with Him always up there.'

Betsey Ann opened her eyes wider and wider in astonishment. 'Well, now, I never heard the like! Why didn't nobody never tell me nothink about it afore?'

'I don't know,' said Rosalie. 'Is the time up?'

'Very near,' said Betsey Ann, with a sigh. 'There's lots to do afore missus is up; there's all the rooms to sweep out, and all the fires to light, and all the breakfasts to set, and all the boots to clean.'

'Can you wait one minute more?' asked the child.

'Yes,' said Betsey Ann; 'bless you! I can wait two or three. I'll take off my shoes and run quick downstairs; that will save some time.'

'I wanted you just to speak to the Lord Jesus Christ before you go,' said Rosalie.

'Me speak to Him! Why, bless you! I don't know how.'

'Shall we kneel down?' said the child. 'He's in the room, Betsey Ann, though you can't see Him, and He'll hear every word we say.'

'O Lord Jesus, please, we come to you this morning. Thank you very much for leaving the Gold City for us. Thank you for coming to be poor, and for loving us, and for dying for us. Please make Betsey Ann love you. Please save Betsey Ann's soul. Please forgive Betsey Ann's sins. Amen.'

'I shall think about it all day; I declare I shall!' said Betsey Ann, as she took off her slipshod shoes and prepared to run downstairs. 'My word! I wonder nobody never told me afore.'

When Rosalie went downstairs that morning, she found her father and the lady of the house in earnest conversation over the fireplace in the best parlour. They stopped talking when the child came into the room, and her father welcomed her with a theatrical bow.

'Good morning, madam,' he said; 'glad to find that you have benefited by your nocturnal slumbers.'

Rosalie walked up to the fire with the kitten in her arms, and the lady of the house gave her a condescending kiss, and then took no further notice of her.

It was a strange life for little Rosalie in the dirty lodging-house, with no mother to care for or to nurse, and with no one to speak kindly to her all day long but poor Betsey Ann.

Clatter, clatter, clatter, went those slipshod shoes, upstairs and downstairs, backwards and forwards, hither and thither. Sweeping, and dusting, and cleaning, and washing up dishes from morning till night, went poor Betsey Ann; and whenever she stopped a minute, her mistress's voice was heard screaming from the dingy parlour—

'Betsey Ann, you lazy girl! what are you after now?'

That afternoon, as Rosalie was sitting reading in her little attic, she heard the slipshod shoes coming upstairs, and presently Betsey Ann entered the room.

'I say,' she said, 'there's a young boy wants to speak to you below; can you come?'

Rosalie hastened downstairs, and found Toby standing in the passage, his hat in his hand.

'Miss Rosie, I beg pardon,' he said, 'but I've come to say good-bye.'

'Oh, Toby! are you going away?'

'Yes,' said Toby; 'master doesn't want us any more this winter; he's got no work for us, so he has sent us off. I'm right sorry to go, I'm sure I am.'

'Where are you going, Toby?'

'I can't tell, Miss Rosie,' said he, with a shrug of his shoulders; 'where I can get, I suppose.'

'Oh dear! I am sorry you must go!' said the child.

'I shall forget all my learning,' said Toby mournfully. 'But I tell you what, Miss Rosie, I shall be back here in spring; master will take me on again, if I turn up in good time, and then you'll teach me a bit more, won't you?'

'Yes,' said Rosalie, 'to be sure I will; but, Toby, you won't forget everything, will you?'

'No, Miss Rosie,' said Toby, 'that I won't! It's always coming in my mind; I can't curse and swear now as I used to do; somehow the bad words seem as if they would choke me. The last time I swore (it's a many weeks ago now, Miss Rosie), I was in a great passion with one of our men, and out came those awful words, quite quick, before I thought of them. But the next minute, Miss Rosie, it all came back to me—all about the Good Shepherd, and how He was looking for me and loving me, and I at that very time doing just what vexes Him. Well, I ran out of the caravan, and I tried to forget it; but somehow it seemed as if the Good Shepherd was looking at me quite sorrowful like; and I couldn't be happy, Miss Rosie, not until I'd asked Him to forgive me, and to help me never to do so no more.'

'I'm so glad, Toby!' said little Rosalie. 'If you love the Good Shepherd, and don't like to grieve Him, I think He must have found you, Toby.'

'Well, I don't know, Miss Rosie; I hope so, I'm sure. But now I must be off; only I couldn't go without bidding you good-bye; you've been so good to me, Miss Rosie, and taught me all I know.'

After this, Rosalie's life went on much the same from day to day. Every morning she was waked by Betsey Ann's touch upon her hand, and she read and explained a fresh verse from the Testament to the poor little maid. Rosalie used to choose the verses the night before, and put a mark in the place, so that she might begin to read the moment she awoke, and thus not one of the ten minutes might be wasted.

Betsey Ann always listened with open mouth and eyes. And she did not listen in vain; a little ray of light seemed, after a time, to be breaking in upon that poor, dark, neglected mind—a little ray of sunshine, which lighted up her dark, dismal life, and made even poor Betsey Ann have something worth living for. 'He loves me;' that was the one idea which was firmly fixed in her mind. 'He loves me so much that He died for me.' And that thought was enough to make even the dismal lodging-house and the hard life seem less dark and dreary than they had done before.

Slowly, very slowly, a change came over the girl, which Rosalie could not help noticing. She was gentler than she used to be, more quiet and patient. And she was happier too. She did not wish to die now, but seemed to be trying to follow the Good Shepherd, who had done so much for her.

These morning talks with Betsey Ann were the happiest parts of Rosalie's days. She did not like the company she met in the large lodging-house; they were very noisy, and the child kept out of their way as much as possible. Many of them were actors and actresses, and were in bed till nearly dinner-time. So the morning was the quietest time in the lodging-house,—even the lady of the house herself was often not up. Then Rosalie would sit with the kitten on her knee before the fire in the dingy parlour, thinking of her mother and of her Aunt Lucy, and putting her hand every now and then inside her dress, that she might be quite sure that her precious locket and letter were safe.

The poor little kit had a happy life now. Rosalie always saved something from her own meals for the motherless little creature; many a nice saucerful of bread and milk, many a dainty little dinner of gravy and pieces of meat did the kitten enjoy. And every night when Rosalie went to bed it was wrapped up in a warm shawl, and went to sleep in the child's arms. And so it came to pass that wherever Rosalie was to be found, the kitten was to be found also. It followed her upstairs and downstairs, it crept to her feet when she sat at meals, it jumped upon her knee when she sat by the fire, it was her constant companion everywhere.

There was only one time when the kitten and Rosalie were separated, and that was when sue went to perform in the theatre. Then it would scamper downstairs after her, as she went to the cab in her little white frock; it would watch her drive away, and wander restlessly about the house, crying until she returned.

No words can describe how much Rosalie disliked going to the theatre now. It was a low, dirty place, and filled every evening with very bad-looking people. Rosalie went there night after night with her father, and the lady of the house, who was an actress in the same theatre, went with them. She was not unkind to Rosalie, but simply took no notice of her. But to Rosalie's father she was very polite; she always gave him the best seat in the dingy parlour, and the chief place at table, and consulted his comfort in every possible way. Often when Rosalie came suddenly into the room, she found her father and the lady of the house in earnest conversation, which was always stopped the moment that the child entered. And as they drove together in the cab to the theatre, many whispered words passed between them, of which Rosalie heard enough to make her feel quite sure that her father and the lady of the house were on the best of terms.

And so the weeks and months passed by, and the time drew near when the days would be long and light again, and her father's engagement at the theatre would end, and he would set out on his summer rounds to all the fairs in the country. Rosalie was eagerly looking forward to this time; she was longing to get out of this dark lodging-house; to have her own caravan to herself, where she might read and pray undisturbed; to breathe once more the pure country air; to see the flowers, and the birds, and the trees again; and to see poor old Toby, and to continue his reading-lessons. To all this Rosalie looked fopward with pleasure.

But Betsey Ann grew very mournful as the time drew near.

'La!' she would say, again and again; 'whatever shall I do without you? Whoever shall I find to read to me then?'

And the slipshod shoes dragged more heavily at the thought, and the eyes of poor Betsey Ann filled with tears.

Yet she knew now that, even when Rosalie went away, the Good Shepherd loved her, and would be with her still.



CHAPTER XVI

A DARK TIME

One morning, when Rosalie was upstairs in her attic reading quietly to herself, the door opened softly, and Betsey Ann came in with a very troubled look in her face, and sat down on one of the boxes.

'What's the matter, Betsey Ann?' asked the child.

'Deary me, deary me!' said the girl; 'I'm real sorry, that I am!'

'What is it?' said Rosalie.

'If it only wasn't her, I shouldn't have minded so much,' explained Betsey Ann; 'but she is—I can't tell you what she is; she's dreadful sometimes. Oh dear! I am in a way about it!'

'About what?' asked Rosalie again.

'I've guessed as much a long time,' said Betsey Ann; 'but they was very deep, them two, and I couldn't be quite sure of it. There's no mistake about it now, more's the pity!'

'Do tell me, please, Betsey Ann!' pleaded the child.

'Well, Rosalie,' said the girl, 'I may as well tell you at once. You're going to have a ma!'

'A what?' said the child.

'A ma—a new mother. She's going to be Mrs. Augustus Joyce.'

'Oh, Betsey Ann,' said Rosalie mournfully,'are you sure?'

'Sure? yes,' said the girl, 'only too sure. One of the lodgers told me; and, what's more, them two have gone off in a cab together just now, and it's my belief that they've gone to church to finish it off. Ay, but I am sorry!'

'Oh, Betsey Ann,' sobbed little Rosalie, 'what shall I do?'

'I never was so cut up about anything,' said the girl. 'She's been just decent to you till now; but when she's made it fast she'll be another woman, you'll see. Oh dear, oh dear! But I must be off; I've lots to do afore she comes back, and I shall catch it if I waste my time.

'Oh, Rosalie, I wish I hadn't told you!' she added, as she listened to the child's sobs.

'Oh, it's better I should know,' said Rosalie; 'thank you, dear Betsey Ann.'

'I'm real sorry, I am!' said the girl, as she went downstairs. 'I'm a great strong thing, but she's such a weakly little darling. I'm real sorry, I am!'

When Betsey Ann was gone, Rosalie was left to her own sorrowful meditations. All her dreams of quiet and peace in the caravan were at an end. They would either remain in the large lodging-house, or, if they went on their travels, the lady of the house would be also the lady of the caravan. And how would she ever be able to keep her dear letter and locket safe from those inquisitive eyes?

What a wretched life seemed before the child as she looked on into the future! She seemed farther from her Aunt Lucy than ever before. And how would she ever be able to do as her mother had asked her—to read her Bible, and pray, and learn more and more about the Good Shepherd.

Life seemed very dark and cheerless to little Rosalie. The sunshine had faded from her sky, and all was chill and lifeless. She lost hope and she lost faith for a time. She thought the Good Shepherd must have forgotten all about her, to let this new trouble come to her. And she was very much afraid that she would grow up a bad woman, and never, never, never see her mother again.

When she had cried for some time, and was becoming more and more miserable every moment, she stretched out her hand for her little Testament, to see if she could find anything there to comfort her. She was turning quickly over the leaves, not knowing exactly where to read, when the word sheep attracted her attention.

Ever since the old man had given her the picture, she had always loved those texts the best which speak of the Lord as the Shepherd and His children as the sheep. This was the one on which her eyes fell that sorrowful day—

'My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me; and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.'

The words seemed to soothe and comfort the troubled child, even before she had thought much about them. But when she began to think the verses over word by word, as was her custom, they seemed to Rosalie to be everything she wanted just then.

'"My sheep." It's the Good Shepherd speaking,' thought Rosalie, 'speaking about His sheep. "My sheep," He calls them. Am I one of them? I hope I am. I have asked the Good Shepherd to find me, and I think He has.

'"My sheep hear My voice." Oh, please Good Shepherd, said little Rosalie, 'may I hear your voice; may I do all that you tell me, and always try to please you!

'"And I know them." I'm glad the Good Shepherd knows me,' said Rosalie; 'because if He knows me, and knows all about me, then He knows just how worried and troubled I am. He knows all about father getting married, and the lady of the house coming to live in our caravan; and He knows how hard it is to do right when I've only bad people round me; yes, He knows all that.

'"My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me." "They follow Me." Where the Good Shepherd goes the sheep go,' said Rosalie to herself. 'He walks first, and they walk after; they go just where He went. Oh dear! I'm sure I don't think He ever went to fairs or theatres or shows. And I must go; can I be a sheep after all? But then I don't want to go; I don't like going a bit. As soon as ever I can, I won't go any more. And the Good Shepherd must know that, if He knows His sheep. And I do want to follow Him, to walk after Him, and only say and do what the Good Shepherd would have said and done. I do hope I am a little sheep, though I do live in a caravan.'

But the second verse seemed to Rosalie even more beautiful than the first: 'I give unto them eternal life.'

She knew what eternal meant; it meant for ever and for ever; her mother had taught her that. And this was the Shepherd's present to His sheep. Eternal life; they were to live for ever and ever. It was a wonderful thought; Rosalie's little mind could not quite grasp it, but it did her good to think of it. It made present troubles and worries seem very small and insignificant. If she was going to live for ever, and ever, and ever, what a little bit of that long time would be spent in this sorrowful world! All the troubles would soon be over. She would not have to live in a caravan in heaven; she would never be afraid there of doing wrong, or growing up wicked. Oh, that was a very good thought. The sorrow would not last always; good times were coming, for Rosalie had received the Good Shepherd's present, even eternal life.

'And they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.'

'After all,' thought Rosalie, 'that is the very sweetest bit of all the text. If I am one of the sheep, and if I am in the Good Shepherd's hand, no one can pluck me out of it. What a strong hand He must have to hold all His sheep so fast!'

'Oh, Good Shepherd,' prayed Rosalie again, 'hold me fast; don't let any one pluck me out of Thy hand, not father, not the new mother, nor any of the people here. Please hold me very tight; I am so afraid. I'm only a little sheep, and I have no one to help me, so please hold me tighter than the rest. Amen.'

Oh, how this prayer lightened little Rosalie's heart! She rose from her knees comforted. Safe in the Good Shepherd's hand, who or what could harm her?

It was well she had been thus strengthened and comforted, for a few minutes afterwards she heard her father's voice calling her, and, going downstairs, she found him sitting in the parlour with the lady of the house.

'Rosalie,' said her father, with a theatrical bow, 'allow me to introduce you to your lady mother!'

He evidently expected her to be very much astonished, but Rosalie tried to smile, and gave her hand to the lady of the house. And, as she put her little trembling hand in that of her new mother, it seemed to Rosalie as if the Good Shepherd tightened the hold of His hand on His little forlorn lamb.

Her father, after a few heartless remarks about Rosalie having a mother again, dismissed her, and she went up again to her attic.

But the very next day Rosalie saw clearly that Betsey Ann's predictions were likely to be fulfilled.

'Rosalie,' said her stepmother, as soon as she came downstairs, 'I intend that you shall make yourself useful now. I'm not going to have a daughter of mine idling away her time as you have been doing lately. Fetch some water and scour the sitting-room floor. And when you've done that, there's plenty more for you to do! I know how to make girls work!'

Rosalie thought she could very easily believe that.

Her father was standing by, and only laughed at what his wife said.

'It will do her good,' Rosalie heard him say, as she went out of the room; 'she wants a bit of hard work.'

And a bit of hard work Rosalie certainly had; it was difficult to say whether she or Betsey Ann had the more to do. Perhaps Rosalie's life was the harder, for every night she had to go, weary and footsore as she was, to the theatre, and take her usual part in the play. And when she came home at night, she was so worn out that she could hardly drag herself up to the attic to bed.

But the hard work was not what Rosalie minded most. There was fault-finding from morning till night, without one single word of praise and encouragement; there were unkind, cruel words, and even blows to bear. But what was worse than all these was that the child had to wait upon many of the rude and noisy and wicked lodgers, and heard and saw much, very much, that was so bad and unholy, that the very thought of it made her shudder as she knelt at night to pray in her little attic.

Would she ever be kept from harm in this dreadful place? Sometimes little Rosalie felt as if she would sink under it; but the Good Shepherd's hand was around her, and she was kept safe; no one could pluck her out of that hand. No evil thing could touch her; the Good Shepherd's little sheep was perfectly safe in His almighty grasp.

Rosalie saw very little of her father at this time. He was out nearly all the afternoon, only coming home in time to go with them to the theatre at night; and then, when the performance was over, he often did not go home with his wife and Rosalie, but sent them off in a cab, and went with one of his friends in another direction. Where they went Rosalie never knew; she feared it was to one of the gin-palaces, which stood at the corner of almost every street in that crowded neighbourhood.

And Rosalie never knew when her father returned home. He had a latch-key, and let himself in after all in the house were asleep; and Rosalie saw him no more until dinner-time the next day, when he would come downstairs in a very bad temper with every one.

She was often unhappy about him, and would have done anything she could to make him think about his soul. But it seemed of no use speaking to him; ever since his wife's death he had appeared quite hardened, as if he had buried his last convictions of sin in her grave. Augustus Joyce had resisted the Spirit of God; and that Spirit seemed to strive with him no longer. The Good Shepherd had longed and yearned to find him; but the wayward wanderer had refused to hear His voice, he had preferred the far country and wilderness of sin to the safe folds and the Shepherd's arms. He had hardened his heart to all that would have made him better, and for the last time had turned away from the tender mercies of God!

One night, when Rosalie had gone to bed, with the kitten beside her on the pillow, and had fallen asleep from very weariness and exhaustion, she was startled by a hand laid on her shoulder, and Betsey Ann's voice saying—

'Rosalie, Rosalie! what can it be?'

She started up quickly, and saw Betsey Ann standing beside her, looking very frightened.

'Rosalie,' she said, 'didn't you hear it?'

'Hear what?' asked the child.

'Why, I was fast asleep,' said Betsey Ann, 'and I woke all of a minute, and I heard the door-bell ring.'

'Are you sure?' said Rosalie. 'I heard nothing.'

'No,' said Betsey Ann; 'and missis doesn't seem to have heard; every one's been asleep a long time; but then, you see, I have to go so fast to open it when it rings in the day, I expect the sound of it would make me jump up if I was ever so fast asleep.'

'Are you quite sure, Betsey Ann?' said Rosalie once more.

But she had hardly spoken the words before the bell rang again very loudly, and left no doubt about it.

'Do you mind coming with me, Rosalie?' said Betsey Ann, as she prepared to go downstairs.

'No not at all,' said the child; 'I'm not afraid.'

So the two girls hastily put on their clothes and went downstairs. Just as they arrived at the bottom of the steep staircase, the bell rang again, louder than before, and the lady of the house came on the landing to see what it was.

'Please, ma'am,' said Betsey Ann, 'it's the house bell; me and Rosalie are just going to open the door.'

'Oh, it's nothing, I should think,' said she; 'it will be some one who has arrived by the train, and has come to the wrong door.'

Whilst they were talking, the bell rang again, more violently than before, and Betsey Ann opened the door. It was a dark night, but she could see a man standing on the doorstep.

'Is this Mrs. Joyce's?' he inquired.

'Yes,' said the girl; 'she lives here.'

'Then she's wanted,' said the man; 'tell her to be quick and come.'

'What's the matter?' asked Rosalie.

'It's an accident,' said the man. 'He's in the hospital, is her husband; he's been run over by a van. I'll take her there if she'll be quick; I'm a mate of Joyce's, and I was passing at the time.'

Rosalie stood as if she had been stunned, unable to speak or move, whilst Betsey Ann went upstairs to tell her mistress.

'It's all along of that drink,' said the man, more as if talking to himself than to Rosalie. 'It's an awful thing is drink. He never saw the van nor heard it, but rolled right under the wheels. I was passing by, I was, and I said to myself, "That's Joyce." So I followed him to the infirmary, and came to tell his wife. Dear me! it's a bad job, it is.'

In a few minutes Mrs. Augustus Joyce came downstairs dressed to go out. Rosalie ran up to her and begged to go with her, but she was ordered to go back to bed, and her stepmother hastened out with the man.



What a long night that seemed to Rosalie! How she longed for morning to dawn, and lay awake straining her ears for any sound which might tell her that her stepmother had returned.

At length, as the grey morning light was stealing into the room, the door-bell rang again, and Betsey Ann went to open the door for her mistress. Rosalie felt as if she did not dare to go downstairs to hear what had happened.

Presently the slipshod shoes came slowly upstairs, and Betsey Ann came into the attic.

'Tell me,' said the child, 'what is it?'

'He's dead,' said Betsey Ann solemnly; 'he was dead when she got there; he never knew nothing after the wheels went over him. Isn't it awful, though?'

Little Rosalie could not speak and could not cry; she sat quite still and motionless.

What of her father's soul? That was the thought uppermost in her mind. Oh, where was he now? Was his soul safe? Could she have any hope, even the faintest, that he was with her mother in the bright home above?

It was a terrible end to Augustus Joyce's ungodly and sinful life. Cut off in the midst of his sins, with no time for repentance, no time to take his heavy load of guilt to the Saviour, whose love he had scorned and rejected. Oh, how often had he been called and invited by the Good Shepherd's voice of love! but he would not hearken, and now it was too late.



CHAPTER XVII

ALONE IN THE WORLD

It was the day after her father's funeral. Rosalie was busily engaged sweeping the high staircase, when her stepmother came out of the dingy parlour, and called to the child to come down.

As soon as Rosalie entered the room, Mrs. Joyce told her to shut the door, and then asked her in a sharp voice how long she intended to stop in her house.

'I don't know, ma'am,' said Rosalie timidly.

'Then you ought to know,' returned Mrs. Joyce. 'I suppose you don't expect me to keep you, and do for you? You're nothing to me, you know.'

'No,' said Rosalie; 'I know I'm not.'

'So I thought I'd better tell you at once,' she said,'that you might know what to expect. I'm going to speak to the workhouse about you—that's the best place for you now; they'll make you like hard work, and get a good place for you, like Betsey Ann.'

'Oh no!' said Rosalie quickly; 'no, I don't want to go there.'

'Don't want?' repeated Mrs. Joyce; 'I daresay you don't want; but beggars can't be choosers, you know. If you'd been a nice, smart, strong girl, I might have kept you instead of Betsey Ann; but a little puny thing like you wouldn't be worth her salt. No, no, miss; your fine days are over; to the house you'll go, sure as I'm alive.'

'Please, ma'am,' began Rosalie, 'my mother, I think, had some relations'—

'Rubbish, child!' said her stepmother, interrupting her. 'I never heard of your mother having any relations; I don't believe she had any, or if she had, they're not likely to have anything to say to you. No, no; the workhouse is the place for you, and I shall take care you go to it before you're a day older. Be off now, and finish the stairs.'

'Betsey Ann,' said Rosalie, as they went upstairs together that night, long after every one else in that large house was fast asleep—'Betsey Ann, dear Betsey Ann, I'm going away!'

'La, bless me!' said Betsey Ann; 'what do you say?'

'I'm. going away to-morrow, dear!' whispered Rosalie; 'so come into my attic, and I'll tell you all about it.'

The two girls sat down on the bed, and Rosalie told Betsey Ann what her stepmother had said to her, and how she could not make up her mind to go into the workhouse, but had settled to leave the lodging-house before breakfast the next morning, and never to come back any more.

'But, Rosalie,' said Betsey Ann, 'whatever will you do?

You can't live on air, child; you'll die if you go away like that!'

'Look here,' said Rosalie, in a very low whisper, 'I can trust you, Betsey Ann, and I'll show you something.'

She put her hand in her bosom, and brought out a little parcel, and when she had opened it she handed the locket to Betsey Ann.

'La, how beautiful!' said the girl; 'I never saw it before.'

'No,' said Rosalie. 'I promised my mammie I would never lose it; and I've been so afraid lest some one should see it, and take it from me.'

'Whoever is this pretty little lady, Rosalie?'

'She's my mammie's sister. Oh, such a good, kind lady! That is her picture when she was quite young: she is married now, and has a little girl of her own. So now I'll tell you all about it,' said Rosalie. 'Just before my mammie died, she gave me that locket, and she said, if ever I had an opportunity, I was to go to my Aunt Lucy. She wrote a letter for me to take with me, to say who I am, and to ask my Aunt Lucy to be kind to me.

'Here's the letter,' said the child, taking it out of the parcel; 'that's my mammie's writing.

"MRS. LESLIE, Melton Parsonage."

Didn't she write beautifully?'

'Well, but Rosalie,' said Betsey Ann, 'what do you mean to do?'

'I mean to go to my Aunt Lucy, dear, and give her the letter.'

'She'll never let you go, Rosalie; it's no use trying. She said you should go to the workhouse, and she'll keep her word!'

'Yes, I know she'll never give me leave,' said Rosalie; 'so I'm going to-morrow morning before breakfast. She doesn't get up till eleven, and I shall be far away then.'

'But, Rosalie, do you know your way?'

'No,' said the child wearily; 'I shall have to ask, I suppose. How far is Pendleton from here, Betsey Ann? Do you know?'

'Yes,' said Betsey Ann; 'there was a woman in the workhouse came from there. She often told us of how she walked the distance on a cold, snowy day; it's fourteen or fifteen miles, I think.'

'Well, that's the town,' said Rosalie, 'where the old man gave me my picture; and it was the first village we passed through after that where my Aunt Lucy lived. Melton must be about five miles farther than Pendleton.'

'Oh, Rosalie,' said Betsey Ann, 'that's near upon twenty miles! You'll never be able to walk all that way!'

'Oh yes,' said the child; 'I must try; because if once I get there—oh, Betsey Ann, just think—if once I get there, to my own dear Aunt Lucy!'

But Betsey Ann buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

'La, bless you, it's all right!' she said, as Rosalie tried to comfort her; 'you'll be happy there, and it will be all right. But, oh dear me! to think I've got to stay here without you!'

'Poor Betsey Ann!' said the child, as she laid her little hand on the girl's rough hair; 'what can I do?'

'Oh, I know it's all right, Rosalie; it's better than seeing you go to the workhouse; but I didn't think it would come so soon. Can't you tell the Good Shepherd, Rosalie, and ask Him to look after me a bit, when you're gone?'

'Yes, dear,' said the child; 'let us tell Him now.'

So they knelt down, hand in hand, on the attic floor, and Rosalie prayed—

'Oh, Good Shepherd, I am going away; please take care of Betsey Ann, and comfort her, and help her to do right, and never let her feel lonely'or unhappy. And please take care of me, and bring me safe to my Aunt Lucy. And if Betsey Ann and I never meet again in this world, please may we meet in heaven. Amen.'

Then they rose from their knees comforted, and began to make preparations for Rosalie's departure.

She would take very little with her, for she had so far to walk that she could not carry much. She filled a very small bag with the things that she needed most; and wrapped her little Testament up, and put it in the centre, with the small pair of blue shoes which had belonged to her little brother. Her picture, too, was not forgotten, nor the card with the hymn upon it. When all was ready, they went to bed, but neither of them could sleep much that night.

As soon as it was light, Rosalie prepared to start. She wrapped herself in her mother's warm shawl, for it was a raw, chilly morning, and took her little bag in her hand. Then she went into Betsey Ann's attic to say good-bye.

'What am I to tell the missis, when she asks where you've gone?' said the girl.

'You can say, dear, that I've gone to my mother's relations, and am not coming back any more. She won't ask any more, if you say that; she'll only be too glad to get rid of me. But I'd rather she didn't know where my Aunt Lucy lives; so don't say anything about it, please, Betsey Ann, unless you're obliged.'

The girl promised, and then with many tears they took leave of each other.

Just as Rosalie was starting, and Betsey Ann was opening the door for her, she caught sight of something very black and soft under the child's large shawl.

'La, bless me!' she cried; 'what's that?'

'It's only the poor little kit,' said Rosalie; 'I couldn't leave her behind. She took a piece of fish the other day, and the mistress was so angry, and is going to give her poison. She said last night she would poison my kit to-day. She called out after me as I went out of the room, "Two pieces of rubbish got rid of in one day. To-morrow you shall go to the workhouse, and that wretched little thief of a kitten shall be poisoned." And then she laughed, Betsey Ann. So I couldn't leave my dear little kit behind, could I?' and Rosalie stroked its black fur very lovingly as she spoke.

'But how will you ever carry it, Rosalie? It won't be good all that way, rolled up like that.'

'Oh, I shall manage, dear. It will walk a bit when we get in the country; it follows me just like a dog.'

'And what are you going to eat on the way, Rosalie? Let me fetch you a bit of something out of the pantry.'

'Oh no, dear!' said Rosalie decidedly; 'I won't take anything, because it isn't mine. But I have a piece of bread that I saved from breakfast, and I have twopence which my father gave me once, so I shall manage till I get there.'

So Rosalie went out into the great world alone, and Betsey Ann stood at the door to watch her go down the street. Over and over again did Rosalie come back to say good-bye, over and over again did she turn round to kiss her hand to the poor little servant-girl, who was watching her down the street. And then when she turned the corner, and could no longer see Betsey Ann's friendly face, Rosalie felt really alone. The streets looked very wide and dismal then, and Rosalie felt that she was only a little girl, and had no one to take care of her. And then she looked up to the blue sky, and asked the Good Shepherd to help her, and to bring her safely to her journey's end.

It was about six o'clock when Rosalie started, the men were going to their work, and were hurrying quickly past her. Rosalie did not like to stop any of them to ask them the way, they seemed too busy to have time to speak to her. She ventured timidly to put the question to a boy of fifteen, who was sauntering along, whistling, with his hands in his pockets; but he only laughed, and asked her why she wanted to know. So Rosalie walked on, very much afraid that after all she might be walking in the wrong direction. She next asked some children on a doorstep; but they were frightened at being spoken to, and ran indoors.

Then Rosalie went up to an old woman who was opening her shutters, and asked her if she would be so very good as to tell her the way to Pendleton.

'What, my dear?' said the old woman. 'Speak up. I'm deaf.'

But though Rosalie stood on tiptoe to reach up to her ear, and shouted again and again, she could not make the old woman hear, and at last had to give it up, and go on her way. She was feeling very lonely now, poor child, not knowing which way to turn, or to whom to go for help. True, there wore many people in the street, but they were walking quickly along, and Rosalie was discouraged by her unsuccessful attempts, and afraid to stop them. She had come some way from the street in which she had lived with her stepmother, and had never been in this part of the town before. She was feeling very faint and hungry, from having come so far before breakfast; but she did not like to eat her one piece of bread, for she would need it so much more later in the day. But she broke off a small piece and gave it to the poor hungry little kit, which was mewing under her shawl.

'Oh,' thought Rosalie, 'if I only had some one to help me just now-some one to show me where to go, and what to do!'

There was a story which the child had read in her little Testament, which came suddenly into her mind just then. It was a story of the Good Shepherd when He was on earth. The story told how He sent two of His disciples into the city of Jerusalem to find a place for Him and them, where they might eat the Passover. The two men did not know to which house to go; they did not know who, in the great city of Jerusalem, would be willing to give a room. But Jesus told them that as soon as they came inside the city gate they would see a man walking before them. He told them the man would be carrying a pitcher of water; and that when they saw this man, they were to follow him, and go down just the same streets as he did. He told them that by and by the man would stop in front of a house, and go into the house, and then, when they saw him go in, they were to know that that was the right house, the house in which they were to eat the Passover.

Rosalie remembered this story now, as she stood at the corner of a street, not knowing which way to turn. How she wished that a man with a pitcher of water would appear and walk in front of her, that she might know which way to go! But though she looked up and down the street, she saw no one at all like the man in the story. There were plenty of men, but none of them had pitchers, nor did they seem at all likely to guide her into the right way.

But the Good Shepherd was the same, Rosalie thought, as kind now as He was then, so she spoke to Him in her heart, in a very earnest little prayer.

'Oh, Good Shepherd, please send me a man with a pitcher of water to show me the way, for I am very unhappy, and I don't know what to do. Amen.'



CHAPTER XVIII

THE LITTLE PITCHER

Rosalie had shut her eyes as she said her little prayer; and when she opened them she saw before her a little girl about five years old, in a very clean print frock and white pinafore, with a pitcher in her hand. Rosalie almost felt as if she had fallen from heaven. She was not a man, to be sure, and the pitcher was filled full of milk, and not water; yet it seemed very strange that she should come up just then.

The little girl was gazing up into Rosalie's face, and wondering why she was shutting her eyes. As soon as Rosalie opened them, she said—

'Please, will you open our shop-door for me? I'm afraid of spilling the milk.'

Rosalie turned round, and behind where she was standing was a very small shop. In the window were children's slates and slate-pencils, with coloured paper twisted round them, and a few wooden tops, and balls of string, and little boxes of ninepins, and a basket full of marbles, and pink and blue shuttlecocks. It was a very quiet little shop indeed, and it looked as if very few customers ever entered it. The slate-pencils and battledores and marbles looked as if they had stood in exactly the same places long before the little girl was born.

Rosalie lifted the latch and opened the door of the little shop for the child to go in. And the little pitcher went in before her.

Rosalie felt sure she must follow it, and that here she would find some one to tell her the way.

'Popsey,' said a voice from the next room—'little Popsey, is that you?'

'Yes, grannie,' said the child; 'and I've not spilt a drop—not one single drop, grannie.'

'What a good, clever little Popsey!' said grannie, coming out of the back parlour to take the milk from the child's hands.

'Please, ma'am,' said Rosalie, seizing the opportunity, 'would you be so very kind as to tell me the way to Pendleton?'

'Yes, to be sure,' said the old woman. 'You're not far wrong here; take the first turn to the right, and you'll find yourself on the Pendleton road.'

'Oh, thank you very much,' said Rosalie. 'Is it a very long way to Pendleton, please, ma'am?'

'Ay, my dear,' said the old woman; 'it's a good long step—Popsey, take the milk in to grandfather, he's waiting breakfast—it's a good long way to Pendleton, my dear, maybe fourteen or fifteen miles.'

'Oh dear! that sounds a very long way!' said Rosalie.

'Who wants to go there, my dear?' asked the old woman.

'I want to go,' said Rosalie sorrowfully.

'You want to go, child? Why, who are you going with? and how are you going? You're surely not going to walk?'

'Yes, I am,' said Rosalie. 'Thank you, ma'am; I must walk as fast as I can.'

'Why, you don't look fit to go, I'm sure!' said the old woman; 'such a poor little weakly thing as you look! Whatever is your mother about, to let you go?'

'I haven't got a mother!' said Rosalie, bursting into tears; 'she's dead, is my mother. I haven't got a mother any more.'

'Don't cry, my poor lamb!' said the old woman, wiping her eyes with her apron. 'Popsey hasn't got a mother neither—her mother's dead; she lives with us, does Popsey. Maybe your grandmother lives in Pendleton; does she?'

'No,' said Rosalie; 'I'm going to my mother's sister, who lives in a village near Pendleton. I was to have gone to the workhouse to-day, but I think perhaps she'll take care of me, if I only can get there.'

'Poor lamb!' said the old woman; 'what a way you have to go! Have you had your breakfast yet? You look fit to faint.'

'No,' said Rosalie; 'I have a piece of bread in my bag, but I was keeping it till I got out of the town.'

'Jonathan,' called out the old woman, 'come here.'

Rosalie could hear a chair being pushed from the table on the stone floor in the kitchen, and the next moment a little old man came into the shop, with spectacles on his nose, a blue handkerchief tied round his neck, and a black velvet waistcoat.

'Look ye here, Jonathan,' said his wife, 'did you ever hear the like? Here's this poor lamb going to walk all the way to Pendleton, and never had a bite of nothing all this blessed day! What do you say to that, Jonathan?'

'I say,' said the old man, 'that breakfast's all ready, and the coffee will be cold.'

'Yes; so do I, Jonathan,' said the old woman; 'so come along, child, and have a sup before you start.'

The next minute found Rosalie seated by the round table in the little back kitchen, with a cup of steaming coffee and a slice of hot cake before her. Such a cosy little kitchen it was, with a bright fire burning in the grate, and another hot cake standing on the top of the oven, to be kept hot until it was wanted. The fireirons shone like silver, and everything in the room was as neat and clean and bright as it was possible for them to be.

Popsey was sitting on a high chair between the old man and woman, and the pitcher of milk was just in front of her; she had been pouring some of it into her grandfather's coffee.

The old man was very attentive to Rosalie, and wanted her to eat of everything on the table. He had heard what she had told the old woman in the shop, for the kitchen was so near that every word could be heard distinctly.

But before Rosalie would eat a morsel herself, she said, looking up in the old woman's face, 'Please, ma'am, may my little kit have something to eat? it's so very, very hungry.'

'Your little kit?' exclaimed the old woman. 'Why, what do you mean, child? Where is it?'

But the kitten answered this question by peeping out from the child's shawl. They were all very much astonished to see it; but when Rosalie told its story, and the old woman heard that it was motherless, like Popsey, it received a warm welcome. The pitcher of milk was emptied for the hungry kitten, and when its breakfast was over, it sat purring in front of the bright fire.

It was a very cosy little party, and they all enjoyed themselves very much. Rosalie thought she had never tasted such good cakes, nor drunk such delicious coffee. Popsey was delighted with the kitten, and wanted to give all her breakfast to it.

When breakfast was over, Popsey got down from her high chair and went to a chest of drawers, which stood in a corner near the fireplace. It was a very old-fashioned chest of drawers, and on the top of it were arranged some equally old-fashioned books. In the middle of these was a large well-worn family Bible.

Popsey put a chair against the chest of drawers, and, standing on tiptoe on it, brought down the Bible from its place. It was almost as much as she could lift, but she put both her arms round it, and carried it to her grandfather. The old man cleared a space for it on the table, and laid it before him. Then, looking up at the old woman, he said—

'Are you ready, grandmother?'

To which the old woman answered, 'Yes, Jonathan, quite ready;' and pushed her chair a little way from the table, and folded her arms. Rosalie followed her example and did the same. Popsey had seated herself on a wooden stool at her grandfather's feet.

Then there was a pause, in which the old man took an extra pair of spectacles from a leathern case, fixed them on his nose, and turned over the leaves of his Bible. And then, when he had found his place, he began to read a psalm. The psalm might have been chosen on purpose for Rosalie; she almost started when the old man began—

'The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want.'

That was the first verse of the psalm; and it went on to tell how the Shepherd leads His sheep into green pastures, and makes them to lie down beside still waters; and how the sheep need fear no evil, for He is with them; His rod and His staff they comfort them.

Then, when he had finished reading, the old man offered up a very suitable little prayer, in which Rosalie and Popsey were both named, and committed to the Shepherd's care.

And then, when they rose from their knees, Rosalie felt it was high time she should go on her journey. But the old woman would not hear of her going till she had wrapped up all that was left of the cake in a little parcel, and slipped it into the child's bag. After this, they all three—the old man, the old woman, and Popsey—went to the door to see Rosalie start.

Popsey could hardly tear herself from the kitten, and the old woman could not make up her mind to stop kissing Rosalie. But at length the good-byes were over, and the child set off once more on her travels, feeling warmed and comforted and strengthened.

It was about eight o'clock now, so there was no time to lose. She easily found the Pendleton road, and the old man had directed her when she found it to go straight on, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, till she reached Pendleton itself. She would pass through several villages, he said, but she was not to turn aside in any direction. So Rosalie had no further anxiety about the way she was to go. All she had to do was to walk along as quickly as possible.

The first part of the road lay through the outskirts of the town; on either side of the way were rows of red-brick houses and small shops, and every now and then a patch of field or garden.

By degrees the houses and shops became fewer, and the patches of field and garden became more numerous.

And then, after a time, the houses disappeared altogether, and there was nothing on both sides of the road but fields and gardens.

The sun was shining now, and the hedges were covered with wild roses. Over Rosalie's head there was a lark singing in mid-air, and by the side of the path grew the small pink flowers of the wild convolvulus. Rosalie could not help stopping to gather some sprays of this, and to twist them round her hat. It was so many months since she had seen any flowers; and they brought the old days back to her, when Toby used to put her down from the caravan, that she might gather the flowers for her mother.

For the first few miles Rosalie enjoyed her walk very much, everything was so bright and pleasant. Every now and then she put the kitten on the ground, and it ran by her side.

Then the child sat on a bank and ate the cake which Popsey's grandmother had given her. And the little black kit had Benjamin's share of the little entertainment.

But as the day went on the poor little kit became tired, and would walk no more; and Rosalie grew tired also. Her feet went very slowly now, and she felt afraid that night would come on long before she reached Pendleton. Then the sun was hidden by clouds, and wind began to sweep through the trees, and blew against the child, so that she could hardly make any way against it.

And then came the rain, only a few drops at first, then quicker and quicker, till Rosalie's shawl became wet through, and her clothes clung heavily to her ankles. Still on she walked, very heavily and wearily, and the rain poured on, and the kitten shivered under the shawl. Rosalie did her very best to keep it warm, and every now and then she stroked its wet fur, and spoke a word of comfort to it.

How wearily the child's little feet pressed on, as she struggled against the cold and piercing wind!

How would she ever reach the town? How would she ever hold on till she arrived at her Aunt Lucy's?



CHAPTER XIX

SKIRRYWINKS

Rosalie was almost in despair, almost ready to give up and sit down by the roadside, when she heard a sound behind her. It was the rumbling sound of wheels, and in another minute Rosalie saw coming up to her two large caravans, so

[Blank Page] like the caravan in which she used to travel with her mother, that the child felt as if she were dreaming as she looked at them.

The caravans were painted a brilliant yellow, just as her father's caravans used to be; and there were muslin curtains and pink bows in the little windows, just like those through which she had so often peeped.

When the caravans came up to Rosalie, she saw a woman standing at the door of the first one, and talking to the man who was driving.

The woman caught sight of the child as soon as they overtook her.

'Halloa!' she called out; 'where are you off to?'

'Please,' said Rosalie, 'I'm going to Pendleton, if only I can get there.'

'Give her a lift, John Thomas,' said the woman; 'give the child a lift. It's an awful day to be struggling along against wind and storm.'

'All right,' said John Thomas, pulling up; 'I've no objections, if the lass likes to get in.'

Rosalie was very grateful indeed for this offer, and climbed at once into the caravan.

The woman opened the door for her, and took off her wet shawl as she went in.

'Why, you've got a kitten there!' she said as she did so. 'Wherever are you taking it to? it's half drowned with the rain.'

'Yes, poor little kit!' said Rosalie; 'I must try to dry it, it is so cold!'

'Well, I'll make a place for both of you near the fire,' said the woman, 'if only my children will get out of the way.'

Rosalie looked in vain for any children in the caravan; but the woman pointed to a large black dog, a pigeon, and a kitten, which were sitting together on the floor.

'Come, Skirrywinks,' said the woman, addressing herself to the kitten; 'come to me.'

As soon as she said 'Skirrywinks,' the kitten, which had appeared to be asleep before, lifted up its head and jumped on her knee. The great black dog was ordered to the other end of the caravan, and the pigeon perched upon the dog's head.

Then the woman gave Rosalie a seat near the little stove, and the child warmed her hands and dried and comforted her poor little kitten. No words can tell how thankful she was for this help on her way. She felt sure that John Thomas must be a man with a pitcher of water, sent to help her on her journey.