For some time the woman leant out of the caravan, continuing her conversation with her husband, and Rosalie was able to look about her. The inside of the caravan was very like that in which she had been born, and had lived so many years. There was a little cooking-stove, just like that which her mother had used; and in the corner was a large cupboard, filled with cups and saucers and plates, just like the one which Rosalie herself had arranged so often. But what struck her more than anything else was that on the side of the caravan was nailed up her picture, the picture of the Good Shepherd and the sheep.

It was exactly the same picture, and the same text was underneath it—

'Rejoice with Me; for I have found My sheep which was lost.' 'There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.'

Rosalie could not help feeling in her bag to be sure that her own picture was safe, so precisely did the picture on the wall resemble it.

The picture seemed to have hung there for some time, for it was very smoky and discoloured, but still it looked very beautiful, Rosalie thought; and her eyes filled with tears as she gazed at it. Oh, how it brought her mother's dream to her mind, and carried her thoughts away from the caravan to the home above, where even now, perhaps, her mother was being called by the Good Shepherd to rejoice with Him over some sheep which was lost, but which the Good Shepherd had found again.

When the woman put her head into the caravan she began to talk to Rosalie, to ask her where she had come from, and where she was going, and what she was going to do. She seemed a friendly woman, though she spoke in a rough voice. All the time she was talking, Skirrywinks was sitting on her shoulder and the pigeon on her head. Rosalie's kitten seemed afraid of the large black dog, and crept into the child's arms.

When they had chatted together for some time, Rosalie ventured to mention the picture, saying that it seemed so strange to see it here, for that she had one exactly like it.

'Oh, have you?' said the woman. 'That's Jinx's picture. An old man gave it to him just a year ago, it will be; it was at Pendleton fair.'

'Why, that's where I got mine!' said Rosalie. 'It must be the same old man.'

'I should say it was,' said the woman; 'he came to the caravans on a Sunday afternoon.'

'Oh yes; it's the same old man,' said Rosalie. 'I have my picture here, in my bag. I wouldn't ever part with it.'

'Wouldn't you?' said the woman. 'Well, I don't believe Jinx would. He nailed it up that very Sunday, and there it's been ever since.'

'Who's Jinx?' asked Rosalie.

'He's our boy; at least he lives with us. Me and John Thomas haven't got any children of our own, so we keeps a few. There's Jinx, he's chief of them; and then there's Skirrywinks, and Tozer, and Spanco, and then there's Jeremiah—you haven't seen Jeremiah; he's in bed—you'll see him when Jinx comes.'

'Where is Jinx?' asked Rosalie, almost expecting he would turn out to be some kind of animal which was hidden away in a corner of the caravan.

'Oh, he's in the next van, with Lord Fatimore,' said the woman; 'he'll be here soon, when it's time for these young people to be fed and trained. He's very clever, is Jinx; you never saw any one so clever in all your life. I'll be bound he can make 'em do anything. We might just as well shut up, if we hadn't Jinx; it's a deal more popular than Lord Fatimore is—folks say they never saw such a sight as when Jeremiah and Skirrywinks dance the polka together; and it's all Jinx that has taught them.'

In about half an hour the caravans were stopped, and the wonderful Jinx arrived. He was very short, not taller than Rosalie; he was so humpbacked, that he seemed to have no neck at all; and he had a very old and wizened and careworn face. It was hard to tell whether he was a man or a boy, he was so small in stature, and yet so sunken and shrivelled in appearance.

'Jinx,' said the woman as he entered, 'here's a young lady come to your performance.'

'Most happy, miss,' said Jinx, with a bow.

The moment that he came into the caravan, Skirrywinks and the dog sat on their hind legs, and the pigeon alighted on his head. As soon as he spoke, Rosalie heard a noise in a basket behind her as of something struggling to get out.

'I hear you, Jeremiah,' said Jinx; 'you shall come, you shall.'

He took the basket, and put his hand inside.

'Now, Jeremiah,' he said—'now, Jeremiah, if I can find you, Jeremiah, come out, and show the company how you put on your new coat.'

Out of the basket he brought a hare, which was wonderfully tame, and allowed itself to be arrayed in a scarlet jacket.

And then Jinx made all the animals go through their several performances, after which each received his proper share of the mid-day meal. But Skirrywinks seemed to be Jinx's favourite; long after the others were dismissed she sat on his shoulders, watching his every movement.

'Well, what do you think of them?' he said, turning to Rosalie when he had finished.

'They're very clever,' said the child—'very clever indeed!'

'That kit of yours couldn't do as much,' said Jinx, looking scornfully at the kitten which lay in Rosalie's lap.

'No,' said the child; 'but she's a very dear little kit, though she doesn't jump through rings nor dance polkas.'

'Well, tastes differ,' said Jinx; 'I prefer Skirrywinks.'

'You've got a picture like mine,' said Rosalie, after a time, when she saw that Jinx seemed inclined to talk.

'Yes,' he said; 'have you one like it? I got it at Pendleton fair.'

'And so did I,' said Rosalie; the same old man gave one to me.

'Has He found you, Mr. Jinx?' said Rosalie, in a lower voice.

'Who found me? what do you mean?' said Jinx, with a laugh.

'Why, haven't you read the story about the picture?' said the child. 'It says where it is underneath.'

'No, not I,' said Jinx, laughing again; 'thinks I, when the old man gave it to me, it's a pretty picture, and I'll stick it on the wall; but I've never troubled my head any more about it.'

'Oh, my mother and I—we read it nearly every day,' said Rosalie; 'it's such a beautiful story!'

'Is it?' said Jinx. 'I should like to hear it; tell it to me; it will pass the time as we go along.'

'I can read it, if you like,' said Rosalie. 'I have it here in a book.'

'All right! read on,' said Jinx graciously.

Rosalie took her Testament from her bag; but before she began to read, Jinx called out to the woman, who was leaning out of the caravan talking to her husband.

'Old mother,' he called out, 'come and hear the little 'un read; she's going to give us the history of that there picture of mine. You know nothing about it, I'll be bound.'

But Jinx was wrong, for when Rosalie had finished reading, the woman said,'That will be the Bible you read out of. I've read that often when I was a girl. I went to a good Sunday school then.'

'And don't you ever read it now?' said Rosalie.

'Oh, I'm not so bad as you think,' said the woman, not answering her question; 'I think of all those things at times. I'm a decent woman in my way. I know the Bible well enough, and there's a many a deal worse than I am!'

'If you would like,' said Rosalie timidly, 'I'll find it for you in your Bible, and then you can read it again, as you used to do when you were a girl.'

The woman hesitated when Rosalie said this.

'Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't got my Bible here,' she said. 'My husband sent all the things we wasn't wanting at the time to his relations in Scotland; and somehow the Bible got packed up in the hamper. It will be a year since now. I was very vexed about it at the time.'

'Has the Good Shepherd found you, ma'am?' asked the child.

'Oh, I don't know, child; I don't want much finding. I'm not so bad as all that; I'm a very decent woman, I am. John Thomas will tell you that.'

'Then, I suppose,' said Rosalie, looking very puzzled, 'you must be one of the ninety-and-nine.'

'What do you mean, child?' asked she.

'I mean, one of the ninety-and-nine sheep which don't need any repentance, because they were never lost; and the Good Shepherd never found them, nor carried them home, nor said of them, "Rejoice with Me; for I have found My sheep which was lost."'

'Well,'said Jinx, looking at Rosalie with a half-amused face, if the old mother's one of the ninety-and-nine, what am I?'

'I don't know,' said Rosalie gravely; 'you must know better than I do, Mr Jinx.'

'Well, how is one to know?' he answered. 'If I'm not one of the ninety-and-nine, what am I, then?'

'Do you really want to know?' said the child gravely; 'because if not, we won't talk about it, please.'

'Yes,' said Jinx, in quite a different tone; 'I really do want to know about it.'

'My mother said one day,' said Rosalie, 'that she thought there were only three kinds of sheep in the parable. There are the ninety-and-nine sheep who were never lost, and who need no repentance, because they've never done anything wrong or said anything wrong, but have always been quite good, and holy, and pure. That's one kind; my mother said she thought the ninety-and-nine must be the angels; she didn't think there were any in this world.'

'Hear that, old mother?' said Jinx; 'you must be an angel, you see. Well, little 'un, go on.'

'And then there are the lost sheep,' said Rosalie, 'full of sin, and far away from the fold; they don't love the Good Shepherd, and sometimes they don't even know that they are lost. They are very far from the right way—very far from being perfectly good and holy.'

'Well,' said Jinx, 'and what's the third kind of sheep?'

'Oh, that's the sheep which was lost, but is found again!'

'And what are they like?' asked the lad.

'They love the Good Shepherd; they listen to His voice, and follow Him, and never, never want to wander from the fold.'

'Is that all the kinds?' asked Jinx.

'Yes,' said Rosalie, 'that's all.'

'Well,' said Jinx thoughtfully, 'I've made up my mind which I am.'

'Which, Mr. Jinx?' asked the child.

'Well,' he said, 'you see I can't be one of the ninety-and-nine, because I've done lots of bad things in my life. I've got into tempers, and I've sworn, and I've done heaps of bad things: so that's out of the question. And I can't be a found sheep, because I don't love the Good Shepherd—I never think about Him at all; so I suppose I'm a lost sheep. That's a very bad thing to be, isn't it?'

'Yes, very bad; if you are always a lost sheep,' said the child; 'but if you are one of the lost sheep, then Jesus came to seek you and to save you.'

'Didn't He come to seek and save the old mother?' asked Jinx.

'Not if she's one of the ninety-and-nine,' said Rosalie. 'It says, "The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost;" so if she isn't lost, it doesn't mean her.'

The woman looked very uncomfortable when Rosalie said this; she did not like to think that Jesus had not come to save her.

'Well, and suppose a fellow knows he's one of the lost sheep,' said Jinx, 'what has he got to do?'

'He must cry out to the Good Shepherd, and tell Him he's lost, and ask the Good Shepherd to find him.'

'Well, but first of all, I suppose,' said Jinx, 'he must make himself a bit ready to go to the Good Shepherd—leave off a few of his bad ways, and make himself decent a bit?'

'Oh no!' said Rosalie; 'he'd never get back to the fold that way. First of all, he must tell the Shepherd he's lost; and then the Shepherd, who has been seeking him a long, long time, will find him at once, and carry him on His shoulders home; and then the Good Shepherd will help him to do all the rest.'

'Well, I'll think about what you've said,' Jinx replied. 'Thank you, little 'un.'

John Thomas here pulled up, saying it was two o'clock, and time they had dinner. So the caravans were drawn up by the roadside, and the woman took the dinner from the oven, and Jinx was sent to the next caravan with Lord Fatimore's dinner, and Rosalie, offering to help, was sent after him with the same gentleman's pipe and tobacco.

She found Lord Fatimore sitting in state in his own caravan. He was an immensely fat man, or rather an enormously overgrown boy, very swollen, and imbecile in appearance. He was lounging in an easy chair, looking the picture of indolence. He brightened up a little as he saw his dinner arriving—it was the great event of his day.

When Rosalie returned to the caravan, the woman was alone, stroking Skirrywinks, who was lying on her knee, but looking as if her thoughts were far away.

'Child,' she said to Rosalie, 'I'm not one of the ninety and-nine; I do need repentance; I'm one of the lost sheep.'

'I'm so glad,' said Rosalie; 'because then the Good Shepherd is seeking you: won't you ask Him to find you?'

But before she could answer John Thomas and Jinx came in for their dinner, and they all insisted on Rosalie joining them.

After dinner John Thomas sat in the caravan and smoked, and Jinx drove, and Rosalie sat still thinking. But she was so tired and worn out, that after a little time the picture on the wall, John Thomas, the woman, Skirrywinks, Tozer, and Spanco faded from her sight, and she fell fast asleep.



CHAPTER XX

MOTHER MANIKIN'S CHAIRS

When Rosalie awoke it was almost dark. The woman was lighting the little oil-lamp, and filling the kettle from a large can of water, which stood in the corner of the caravan.

'Where are we?' said the child, in a sleepy voice.

'Close upon Pendleton, little 'un,' answered Jinx. 'Get up and see the lights in the distance.'

'Oh dear, and it's nearly dark!' said Rosalie.

'Never mind, my dear; we're just there,' said John Thomas. He did not know that she had five more miles to walk.

So the wheels of the caravan rumbled on, and in about a quarter of an hour they came into the streets of the town. It was quite dark now, and the lamps were all lighted, and the men were going home from work.

Then they arrived at the field where the fair was held; the very field where the old man had given Rosalie the picture. Not many caravans had arrived, for John Thomas had come in good time.

And now Rosalie must leave her kind friends, which she did with many grateful thanks. But before she said goodbye, she whispered a few words in the woman's ear.

To which she made answer, 'Yes, child; this very night I will;' and gave Rosalie a warm, loving kiss on her forehead.

Then the little girl went down the caravan steps, and turned into the neighbouring street. The Good Shepherd who had helped her so wonderfully as far as this would never leave her now. This was her one comfort. Yet she could not help feeling very lonely as she went down the street, and peeped in at the windows as she passed by. In nearly every house a bright fire was burning, and tea was ready on the table; in some, a happy family party was just sitting down to their evening meal; in all, there was an air of comfort and rest.

And Rosalie, little motherless Rosalie, was out in the cold, muddy, damp street alone, out in the darkness and the rain, and five miles from her Aunt Lucy's house! How could she ever walk so far, that cold, dark night? She trembled as she thought of going alone down those lonely country roads, without a light, without a friend to take care of her. And yet she would be still more afraid to wander about the streets of this great town, where she was sure there was so much wickedness and sin.

Even now there were very few people passing down the street, and Rosalie began to feel very much afraid of being out alone. She must find some one at once to show her the way to Melton.

The child was passing a small neat row of houses built close upon the street. Most of them were shut up for the night, but through the cracks of the shutters Rosalie could see the bright light within.

But the last house in the row was not yet shut up, and as Rosalie came near to it, she saw a childish figure come out of the door and go up to the shutters to close them. The fasteners of the shutters had caught in the hook on the wall, and the little thing was too short to unloose it. She was standing on tiptoe, trying to undo it, when Rosalie came up.

'Let me help you,' she said, running up and unfastening the shutter.

'I'm extremely obliged to you,' said a voice behind her which made Rosalie start.

It was no child's voice; it was a voice she knew well, a voice she had often longed to hear. It was little Mother Manikin's voice!

With one glad cry of joy, Rosalie flung herself into the little woman's arms.

Mother Manikin drew back at first; it was dark, and she could not see Rosalie's face.

But when the child said, in a tone of distress, 'Mother Manikin, dear Mother Manikin, don't you know me? I'm little Rosalie Joyce,' the dear little old woman was full of love and sympathy in a moment.

She dragged Rosalie indoors into a warm little kitchen at the back of the house, where the table was spread for tea, and a kettle was singing cheerily on the fire; and she sat on a stool beside her, with both her little hands grasping Rosalie's.

'And now, child,' she said, 'how ever did you find me out?'

'I didn't find you out, Mother Manikin,' said Rosalie; 'you found me out.'

'What do you mean, child?' said the old woman.

'Why, dear Mother Manikin, I didn't know you were here. I didn't know who it was till I had finished unfastening the shutter.'

'Bless me, child! then what makes you out at this time of night? Has your caravan just arrived at the fair?'

'No, dear Mother Manikin, I've not come to the fair. I'm quite alone, and I have five miles farther to walk.'

'Tell me all about it, child,' said Mother Manikin.

So Rosalie told her all—told her how and where her mammie had died; told her about the great lodging-house, and the lady of the house; told her about her father's marriage and death; told her of her Aunt Lucy, and the letter and the locket; told her everything, as she would have told her own mother. For Mother Manikin had a motherly heart, and Rosalie knew it; and the tired child felt a wonderful sense of comfort and rest in pouring out her sorrows into those sympathising ears.

But in the middle of Rosalie's story the little woman jumped up, saying hurriedly—

'Wait a minute, child; here's a strange kitten got in.'

She was just going to drive out the little black stranger, which was mewing loudly under the table, when the child stopped her.

'Please dear Mother Manikin, that's my little kit; she has come with me all the way, and she's very hungry—that's why she makes such a noise.'

In another minute a saucer of milk was placed on the rug before the fire, and the poor little kitten had enough and to spare.

Rosalie was very grateful to Mother Manikin, and very glad to be with her; but just as she was finishing her story, the large eight-day clock in the corner of the kitchen struck seven, and Rosalie started to her feet.

'Mother Manikin,' she said, 'I must be off. I've five miles farther to walk.'

'Stuff and nonsense, child!' said the old woman; 'do you think I'm going to let you go to-night? Not a bit of it, I can tell you. Old age must have its liberties, my dear, and I'm not going to allow it.'

'Oh, Mother Manikin,' said Rosalie, 'what do you mean?'

'What do I mean, child? Why, that you're to sleep here to-night, and then go, all rested and refreshed, to your aunt's to-morrow. That's what I mean. Why, I have ever such a nice little house here, bless you!' said the little woman. 'Just you come and look.'

So she took Rosalie upstairs, and showed her the neatest little bedroom in the front of the house, and another room over the kitchen which Mother Manikin called her greenhouse, for in it, arranged on boxes near the window, were all manner of flowerpots, containing all manner of flowers, ferns, and mosses.

'It's a nice sunny room, my dear,' said Mother Manikin, 'and it's my hobby, you see; and old age must have its liberties, and these little bits of plants are my hobby. I live here all alone, and they're company, you see. And now, come downstairs and see my little parlour.'

The parlour was in the front of the house, and it was the shutters of this room which Mother Manikin was closing as Rosalie came up. A bright lamp hung from the ceiling of the room, and white muslin curtains adorned the window; but what struck Rosalie most of all was that the parlour was full of chairs. There were rows and rows of chairs; indeed, the parlour was so full of them that Mother Manikin and Rosalie could hardly find a place to stand.

'What a number of chairs you have here, Mother Manikin!' said the child in amazement.

The old woman laughed at Rosalie's astonished face.

'Rosalie, child,' she said, 'do you remember how you talked to me that night—the night when we sat up in the caravan?'

Rosalie's eyes filled with tears at the thought of it.

'Yes, dear Mother Manikin,' she answered.

'Do you remember bow I looked at your picture, and you told me all about it?'

'Yes, Mother Manikin,' said the child, 'I remember that.'

'And do you remember a question that you asked me then, Rosalie, childl! "Mother Manikin," you said, "has He, found you?" And I thought about it a long time; and then I told you the truth. I said, "No, child, He hasn't found me." But if you asked me that question to-night, Rosalie, child, if you asked little Mother Manikin, "Do you think the Good Shepherd has found you now, Mother Manikin?" I should tell you, Rosalie child, I should tell you that He went about to seek and save them which were lost, and that one day, when He was seeking, He found little Mother Manikin.

'Yes, my dear,' said the old woman; 'He found me. I cried out to Him that I was lost, and wanted finding; and He heard me, child. He heard me, and He carried me on His shoulders rejoicing.'

Little Rosalie could not help crying when she heard this, but they were tears of joy.

'So I gave up the fairs, child; it didn't seem as if I could follow the Good Shepherd there. There was a lot of foolishness, and nonsense, and distraction; so I left them. I told them old age must have its liberties; and I brought away my savings, and a little sum of money I had of my own, and I took this little house. So that's how it is, child,' said the little old woman.

'But about the chairs?' said Rosalie.

'Yes, about the chairs,' repeated the old woman; 'I'm coming to that now. I was sitting one night thinking, my dear, over the kitchen fire. I was thinking about the Good Shepherd, and how He had died for me, just that I might be found and brought back to the fold. And I thought, child, when He had been so good to me, it was very bad of me to do nothing for Him in return; nothing to show Him I'm grateful, you see. I shook my fist, and I said to myself, You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mother Manikin! you little idle, ungrateful old thing!

'But then, Rosalie, child, I began to think, What can I do? I'm so little, you see, and folks laugh at me, and run after me when I go out; and so all things seemed closed upon me. There seemed nothing for little Mother Manikin to do for the Good Shepherd. So I knelt down, child, and I asked Him. I said—

'"Oh, Good Shepherd, have you got any work for a woman that's only three feet high? because I do love you, and want to do it."

'Well, Rosalie, child, it came quite quick after that. Mr. Westerdale called, and, said he—

'"Mother Manikin, I want to have a little Bible Meeting for some of the poor things round here—the mothers who have little babies, and can't get to any place of worship, and a few more, who are often ill, and can't walk far. Do you know," he said, "anybody in this row who would let me have a room for my class?"

'Well, child, I danced for joy; I really did, child. I danced like I hadn't danced since I left the Royal Show. So Mr. Westerdale, he says, "What's the matter, Mother Manikin?" He thought I'd gone clean off my head!

'"Why, Mr. Westerdale," I cried, "there's something I can do for the Good Shepherd, though I'm only three feet high!"

'So then he understood, child; and he finds the parlour very convenient, and the people come so nicely, and it's a happy night for me. So that's what the chairs are for.

'Mr. Westerdale will be here in a minute, child; he always gets a cup of tea with me before the folks come. That's why I'm so late to-night; I always wait till he comes.'

She had no sooner said the words than a rap was heard at the door, and the little woman ran to open it for Mr. Westerdale. He was an old man, with a rosy, good-tempered face, and a kind and cheerful voice.

'Well, Mother Manikin,' he said, as he came into the kitchen, 'a good cup of tea ready for me as usual! What a good, kind woman you are!'

'This is a little friend of mine, Mr. Westerdale,' said Mother Manikin, introducing Rosalie.

But Rosalie needed no introduction. She shook hands with the old man, and then darted out of the room, and in another minute returned with her small bag, which she had left upstairs. Hastily unfastening it, she took from it her dear picture—the picture which had done so much for her and her mother and little Mother Manikin—and, holding it up before the old man, she cried out—

'Please, sir, it's quite safe. I've kept it all this time; and, please, I do love it so!'

For Mr. Westerdale was Rosalie's old friend, who had come to see her in the fair, just a year ago. He did not remember her, but he remembered the picture; and when Rosalie told him where she had seen him, a recollection of the sick woman and her pretty child came back to his mind. As they sat over their comfortable little tea, and Rosalie told how that picture had been the messenger of mercy to her dying mother, the old man's face became brighter than ever.

And after tea the people began to arrive. It was a pleasant sight to see how little Mother Manikin welcomed them, one by one, as they came in. They all seemed to know her well, and to love her, and trust her. She had so many questions to ask them, and they had so much to tell her. There was Freddy's cough to be inquired after, and grandfather's rheumatism, and the baby's chickenpox. And Mother Manikin must be told how Willie had got that situation he was trying for, and how old Mrs. Joyce had got a letter from her daughter at last; and how Mrs. Price's daughter had broken her leg, and Mrs. Price had told them to say how glad she would be if Mother Manikin could go in to see her for a few minutes sometimes.

Little Mother Manikin had 'a heart at leisure from itself, to soothe and sympathise,' and their troubles were her troubles, their joys her joys.

At last every one had arrived, and the chairs in the sitting-room were all filled. Then the clock struck eight, and they were all quite still as Mr. Westerdale gave out the hymn. And when the hymn and the prayer were ended, Mr. Westerdale began to speak. Rosalie was sitting close to Mother Manikin, and she listened very attentively to all that her old friend said.

'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow:' that was the text of the sermon.

'A long way from here, my friends,' said Mr. Westerdale, 'a long way from here, in the land of Palestine, is a beautiful mountain, the top of which is covered with the purest, whitest snow. One day, a very great many years ago, the Apostle John and two of his friends were lying on the mountain asleep, and when they awoke, they saw a wonderful sight. They saw the Lord Jesus in His glory, and His raiment was exceeding white—as white as snow.

'A few years later, God let this same Apostle John look into heaven; and there he saw everything the same colour—pure, unstained white. The Lord Jesus had His head and His hair as white as wool, as white as snow. He was sitting on a white throne, and all the vast multitude standing round the throne had white robes on—pure, spotless white; as white as snow.

'Nothing, my friends, that is not perfect white can enter heaven, for pure, perfect white is heaven's colour.

'What does all this mean? It means that nothing can enter that holy heaven that is not perfectly pure, perfectly holy, perfectly free from sin.

'For there is another colour mentioned in my text, a colour which is just the opposite to white—scarlet—glaring scarlet. And this colour is used as a picture of that which is not pure, not holy, that upon which God cannot look—I mean sin.

'Your sins are as scarlet, God says; and no scarlet can enter heaven; nothing is found within the gates of heaven but pure white, as white as snow. Nothing short of perfect holiness can admit you or me into heaven. When we stand before the gate, it will be no good our pleading, I'm almost white, I'm nearly white, I'm whiter than my neighbours; nothing but pure white, nay, white as snow, will avail us anything. One single scarlet spot is enough to shut the gates of heaven against us.

'Oh, dear friends, this is a very solemn thought. For who in this room, which of you mothers, which of you young girls, can stand up and say, There is no scarlet spot on me, I am free from sin. Heaven's gate would be opened to me, for I have never done anything wrong—I am quite white, as white as snow.

'Which of you can say that? Which of you would dare to say it, if you stood before the gate of heaven to-night?

'There is no hope, then, you say, for me; heaven's gates are for ever closed against me. I have sinned over and over again. I am covered with scarlet spots, nay, I am altogether scarlet.

"Red like crimson, deep as scarlet, Scarlet of the deepest dye, Are the manifold transgressions Which upon my conscience lie!

"God alone can count their number! God alone can look within; Oh, the sinfulness of sinning! Oh, the guilt of every sin!"

'So there is no hope, not the least, for me! Only spotless white can enter heaven, so I must be for ever shut out!

'Must you? Is there indeed no hope?

'Listen, oh, listen again to the text—"though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow."

'Then there is a way of changing the scarlet into white; there is a way of making the deep, glaring scarlet turn into pure white, as white as snow.

'Oh, what good news for us! What glad tidings of great joy!

'But how is it done? How can you or I, who are so covered with scarlet stains of sin, be made as white as snow?

'Dear friends, this is the way. There is One, the Lord Jesus Christ, who has been punished instead of us, who has taken all our sins upon Him, just as if they were His own sins, and has been punished for them, as if He had really done them. The great God who loved us so planned all this. And now He can forgive us our sins, for the punishment is over. He can not only forgive, but He can forget. He can blot them out. He can make us clean and white, as white as snow.

'This then is His offer to you to-night. "Come now," He cries, "only accept My offer." Only take the Lord Jesus Christ as your Saviour; only ask Him to wash you in His blood; only see, by faith, that He died in your place, instead of you; and your sins—your scarlet sins—shall be made as white as snow. This very night, before you lie down to sleep, you may be made so white, that heaven's gate will, when you stand before it, be thrown wide open to you; so white, that you will be fit to stand amongst that great multitude which no man can number, who have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

'My dear friends, will you accept God's offer? Will you come to the Lord Jesus to be made white? Will you plead this promise, the promise in my text? Will you, before you lie down to sleep, say—

'O Lord, my sins are indeed as scarlet, make them, in the blood of Christ, as white as snow.

'Will you, I ask you again, accept God's offer? Yes, or No?'



CHAPTER XXI

IN SIGHT OF HOME

When the little service was over, the people went away, and Mr. Westerdale, Mother Manikin, and Rosalie sat together over the fire talking. The old man was much encouraged by all that he heard from the child. He had sometimes wondered whether his visits to the fair had done the slightest good to any one, and now that he heard how God had so largely blessed this one picture, he felt strengthened and cheered to make further efforts for the benefit of the poor travellers whose souls so few care for. Next Sunday would be the Sunday for him to visit the shows, he said, and he should go there this year with more hope and more faith.

When Rosalie heard this, she begged him to have a little conversation with the woman with whom she had travelled. She told him to look out for the show over the door of which was written, 'Lord Fatimore and other Pleasing Varieties,' for there, she felt sure, he would find a work to do. And she did not forget to ask him, when he went there, to remember to inquire for Jinx, and to speak to him also.

When Mr. Westerdale had said good-night and was gone away, Mother Manikin insisted on Rosalie's going at once to bed, for the child was very weary with her long and tiring day.

She slept very soundly, and in the morning awoke to find Mother Manikin standing beside her with a cup of tea in her hands.

'Come, child,' she said, 'drink this before you get up.'

'Oh, dear Mother Manikin,' said Rosalie, starting up, how good you are to me!'

'Bless you, child!' said the dear little old woman; 'I only wish you could stay with me altogether. Now mind me, child, if you find, when you get to Melton, that it isn't convenient for you to stay at your aunt's, just you come back to me. Dear me! how comfortable you and me might be together! I'm lonesome at times here, and want a bit of company, and my little bit of money is enough for both of us. So mind you, child,' repeated Mother Manikin, shaking her little fist at Rosalie, 'if you don't find all quite straight at Melton, if you think it puts them out at all to take you in, you come to me. Now I've said it, and when I've said it I mean it; old age must have its liberties, and I must be obeyed.'

'Dear Mother Manikin,' said Rosalie, putting her arms round the little old woman's neck, 'I can never, never, never say thank you often enough.'

After breakfast Rosalie started on her journey, with the little black kit in its usual place in her arms. Mother Manikin insisted on wrapping up a little parcel, containing lunch, for the child to eat on her way. And as she stood on the doorstep to see her off, she called out after her—

'Now, child, if all isn't quite straight, come back here to-night; I shall be looking out for you.'

So Rosalie started on her journey. On her way she passed the field where the fair was to be held. What recollections it brought to her mind of the year before, when she had arrived there in the caravan with her sick mother.

Not many shows had reached the place, for it was yet three days before the fair would be held. But in one corner of the field Rosalie discovered the bright yellow caravans of the show of 'Lord Fatimore and other Pleasing Varieties.' She could not pass by without going for a moment to the caravan to thank Old Mother, and John Thomas and Jinx, for their kindness to her the day before.

Mother was having a great wash of all John Thomas's clothes, and Lord Fatimore's and Jinx's and her own. She was standing at the door of the caravan washing, and Jinx was busily engaged hanging out the clothes on a line which had been stretched between the two caravans.

'Halloa, young 'un!' said he, as Rosalie came up; 'and where have you sprung from?'

Rosalie told him that she had spent the night with a friend who lived in the town, and was going to continue her journey.

'Young 'un,' said Jinx, 'I haven't forgot what you told me about that there picture. I like my picture a deal more than I did afore.'

Then Rosalie went up to the woman, who did not see her till she was close to the caravan steps. The woman was hard at work at her washing, with Skirrywinks sitting on her shoulder, and Spanco, the pigeon, on her head. Rosalie could not be quite sure, but she fancied there were tears in her eyes as she bent over her washing.

'Oh, it's you!' she said to Rosalie. 'I am glad to see you again; I was thinking about you just then.'

'Were you?' said the child; 'what were you thinking?'

'I was thinking over what we talked about yesterday—about the lost sheep.'

'Did you remember last night to ask the Good Shepherd to find you,' said Rosalie.

'Oh yes,' said the woman, 'I didn't forget; but instead of the Good Shepherd finding me, I think I'm farther away from the fold than ever; leastways, I never knew I was so bad before.'

'Then the Good Shepherd is going to find you,' said Rosalie; 'He only waits until we know we are lost, and then He is ready to find us at once.'

'Oh, I do hope so,'said the woman earnestly; 'you'll think of me sometimes, won't you?'

'Yes, I'll never forget you,' said the child.

'Will you come in and rest a bit?'

'No, thank you, ma'am,' said Rosalie; 'I must go now; I have some way farther to walk; but I wanted to say good-bye to you, and to thank you for being so kind to me yesterday.'

'Bless you!' said the woman heartily; 'it was nothing to speak of. Good-bye, child, and mind you think of me sometimes.'

So Rosalie left the fair-field and turned on to the Melton road. What a strange feeling came over her then! She was within five miles of her Aunt Lucy, and was really going to her at last! Oh, how she had longed to see that dear face which she had gazed at so often in the locket! How she had yearned to deliver her mother's letter, and to see her Aunt Lucy reading it! How often—how very often, all this had been in her mind by day, and had mingled with her dreams at night!

And yet now—now that she was really on the road which led up to her Aunt Lucy's door—Rosalie's heart failed her. She looked down at her little frock, and saw how very old and faded it was. She took off her hat, and the piece of black ribbon which Toby had given her had never before seemed so rusty and brown.

What a shabby little girl her Aunt Lucy would see coming in at the garden-gate! Her thoughts travelled back to the little girl whom she had seen in that garden a year ago, her Aunt Lucy's own little girl. How differently she was dressed! How different in every way she was to Rosalie! What if her Aunt Lucy was vexed with her for coming? She had had much trouble from Rosalie's father; was it likely she would welcome his child?

Sometimes Rosalie felt inclined to turn back and go to old Mother Manikin. But she remembered how her mother had said—

'If ever you can, dear, you must go to your Aunt Lucy, and give her that letter.'

And now, whatever it cost her, Rosalie determined she would go. But she grew more and more shy as she drew nearer the village, and walked far more slowly than she had done when she first left the town.

At last the village of Melton came in sight. It was a fine spring morning, and the sunlight was falling softly on the cottages, and farmhouses, and the beautiful green trees and hedges.

Rosalie rested a little on a stile before she went farther, and the little black kit basked in the sunshine. The field close by was full of sheep, and the child sat and watched them. It was a very pretty field; there were groups of trees, under the shadow of which the sheep could lie and rest; and there was a quiet stream trickling through the midst of the field, where the sheep could drink the cool, refreshing water.

As Rosalie watched the sheep in their happy, quiet field, a verse of the psalm which Popsey's old grandfather had read came into her mind—

'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters.'

What if the Good Shepherd were about to take her, His poor little motherless lamb, to a green pasture, a quiet, restful home, where she might be taught more of the Good Shepherd's love? How Rosalie prayed that it might indeed be so! And then she summoned courage and went on.

It was about twelve o'clock when she reached Melton. The country people were most of them having their dinner, and few people were in the village street. With a beating heart the child pressed on.

Soon she came in sight of the little cottage, before which the caravan had stood when she and her mother were there a year ago. There was the cottage with its thatched roof, looking just as comfortable as it had done then; there was the garden just the same as before, with the same kind of flowers growing in it; there were the cabbage-roses, the southernwood, the rosemary, the sweetbriar, and the lavender. And the wind was blowing softly over them, and wafting their sweet fragrance to Rosalie, just as it had done a year ago. And there was Rosalie, standing peeping through the gate, just as she had done then. It seemed to Rosalie like a dream which she had dreamt before. Only a year—only a year ago!

And yet one was absent; her mother was no more there; she was gone and little Rosalie was alone by the gate!

Tears came in her eyes as she looked through the bars, and fell upon her little dusty frock. But she wiped them away, and went on through the village street.

At last she arrived at the large house close to the church which her mother had longed so much to see. With a trembling hand she opened the iron gate and walked up the broad gravel path.

There was a large knocker in the middle of the door, and a bell on one side of it. Rosalie did not know whether to knock or to ring, so she stood still for a few minutes without doing either, hoping that some one would see her from the window and come to ask what she wanted.

But as the minutes passed by and no one came, Rosalie ventured, very gently and timidly, to rap with the knocker. But no one inside the house heard the sound of the child's knocking. So she gathered courage and pulled the bell, which rang so loudly that it made her tremble more than ever.

Then she heard a rustling in the hall and the sound of a quick footstep, and the door was opened. A girl about eighteen years of age stood before her, dressed in a pretty print dress and very white apron, with a neat round cap on her head. Rosalie was trembling so much now that she cast her eyes on the ground and did not speak.

'What do you want, dear?' said the girl kindly, stooping down to Rosalie as she spoke.

'If you please,' said Rosalie, 'is Mrs. Leslie in I I have a letter that I want very much to give her.'

'No, dear; she's not in just now,' said the girl; 'will you leave the letter with me?'

'Oh, please,' said Rosalie timidly, 'I would very much like to give it to her myself, if you will be so kind as to let me wait till she comes.'

'Yes, she won't be very long,' said the girl. 'Would you like to sit in the summer-house till she comes I it's very pleasant there.'

'Oh, thank you,' said the child gratefully; 'I should like it very much indeed.'

'I'll show you where it is,' said the girl; 'it's behind these trees.'

As Rosalie was walking to the summer-house, she ventured for the first time to look into the girl's face. The voice had seemed familiar to her; but when she saw the face, the large brown eyes, the dark hair, and the rosy cheeks, she felt sure that she had met with an old friend.

'Oh, please,' she said, stopping suddenly short in the path—'please, aren't you Britannia?'

'How do you know anything about Britannia?' she inquired hurriedly.

'I didn't mean to say Britannia,' said Rosalie. 'I know you don't ever want to be called that again; but, please, you are Jessie, are you not?'

'Yes, dear,' said the girl, 'my name is Jessie; but how do you know me?'

'Please,' said Rosalie, 'don't you remember me? And how we talked in the caravan that windy night, when my mammie was so ill?'

'Oh, Rosalie,' said Jessie, 'is it you? Why, to think I never knew you! Why, I shouldn't ever have been here if it hadn't been for you and your mother! Oh, I am glad to see you again! Where are you going to, dear? Is your caravan at Pendleton fair?'

'No, Jessie,' said Rosalie; 'I don't live in a caravan now; and I've walked here to give a letter from my mother to Mrs. Leslie.'

'Then your mother got better after all,' said Jessie. 'I am so glad! she was so very ill that night.'

'Oh no, no, no!' said Rosalie, with a flood of tears—'no, she didn't get better; she wrote that letter a long time ago.'

'Poor little Rosalie!' said Jessie, putting her arms round her, and shedding tears also. 'I am so very, very sorry!'

'Please, Jessie,' said Rosalie through her tears, 'did you remember to give Mrs. Leslie my mammie's message?'

'Yes, dear, that I did. Do you think I would forget anything she asked me? Why, I should never have been here if it hadn't been for her.'

'Can you remember what you said to Mrs. Leslie, Jessie?'

'Yes, dear. It was the first time she came to our house after I came back. I told her all about what I had done, and where I had been. And then I told her how I had met with a woman who used to know her many years ago, but who hadn't seen her for a long, long time, and that this woman had sent her a message. So she asked me who this woman was, and what the message was which she had sent her. I told her that the woman's name was Norah, but I didn't know her other name, and that Norah sent her respects and her love, and I was to say that she had not very long to live, but that the Good Shepherd had sought her and found her, and that she was not afraid to die. And then, Rosalie, she cried when I told her that, and went away. But she came again about half an hour after that, and asked me ever so many questions about your mother, and I told her all I could. I told her how ill she was, and how she liked the hymn, and all about you, and how good you were to your mother. And then I told her how beautifully your mother talked to me about the Good Shepherd, and how she begged me to ask the Good Shepherd to find me, and how I had done as she begged me, and I hoped that He was carrying me home on His shoulder. And I told her, dear, how kind you both were to me, and how you gave me that money, and made me promise to know which road the caravan was on, and which fair it was going to. She asked a many questions about that, and wanted to know if I could tell her what town would be the next you would stop at after the one you were going to when I met you; but I couldn't. Now I must go in, dear, and get dinner ready; but I'll tell my mistress as soon as she comes.'

So Rosalie sat down in the arbour to wait. But she could hardly sit still a minute, she felt so excited and restless.

Only now and again she lifted up her heart in prayer to the Good Shepherd, asking Him to make her aunt love her and help her.



CHAPTER XXII

THE LOST LAMB FOUND

The time that Rosalie waited in the arbour seemed very, very long to her. Every minute was like an hour, and at the least sound she started from her seat, and looked down the gravel path. But it was only a bird, or a falling leaf, or some other trifling sound, which Rosalie's anxious ears had exaggerated.

But at last, when the sound she had been listening for so long did really come, when footsteps were heard on the gravel path coming towards the arbour, Rosalie sat still, until they drew close, for in a moment all the fears she had had by the way returned upon her.

They were very quick and eager footsteps which Rosalie heard, and in another moment, almost before she knew that her Aunt Lucy had entered the arbour, she found herself locked in her arms.

'Oh, my little Rosalie,' said she, with a glad cry, 'have I found you at last?'

For Jessie had told Mrs. Leslie that it was Norah's child who was waiting to speak to her in the arbour.

Rosalie could not speak. For a long time after that she was too full of feeling for any words. And her Aunt Lucy could only say, over and over again, 'My little Rosalie, have I found you at last?' It seemed to Rosalie more like what the Good Shepherd said of His lost sheep than anything she had ever heard before.

'Have you been looking for me, dear Aunt Lucy?' she said at last.

'Yes, darling, indeed I have!' said her aunt. 'Ever since Jessie came back, I have been trying to find out where you were. I wanted so much to see your mother; but before I arrived at the place she was dead. I saw her grave, Rosalie, darling; I heard about her dying in the fair; and my husband found out where she was buried, and we went and stood by her grave. And ever since then, dear child, I have been looking for you; but I had lost all clue to you, and was almost giving it up in despair. But I've found you now, darling, and I am so very thankful!'

Then Rosalie opened her bag, and took out the precious letter. How her Aunt Lucy's hand trembled as she opened it! It was like getting a letter from another world! And then she began to read, but her eyes were so full of tears that she could hardly see the words.

'MY OWN DARLING SISTER,

'I am writing this letter with the faint hope that Rosalie may one day give it to you. It ought not to be a faint hope, because I have turned it so often into a prayer. Oh, how many times have I thought of you, since last we met, how often in my dreams you have come to me and spoken to me!

'I am too ill and too weak to write much, but I want to tell you that your many prayers for me have been answered at last. The lost sheep has been found, and has been carried back to the fold. I think I am the greatest sinner that ever lived, and yet I believe my sins are washed away in the blood of Jesus.

'I would write more, but am too exhausted. But I want to ask you (if it is possible for you to do so) to save my sweet Rosalie from her mother's fate. She is such a dear child. I know you would love her—and I am so very unhappy about leaving her amongst all these temptations.

'I know I do not deserve any favour from you, and you cannot think what pain it gives me to think how often you have been asked for money in my name. That has been one of the greatest trials of my unhappy life.

'But if you can save my little Rosalie, oh, dear sister, I think even in heaven I shall know it, and be more glad. I would ask you to do it, not for my sake, for I deserve nothing but shame and disgrace, but for the sake of Him who has said, "Whoso shall receive one such little child in My name receiveth Me."

'Your loving sister, 'NORAH.'

'When did your dear mother write the letter, Rosalie?' Aunt Lucy asked, as soon as she could speak after she had finished reading it.

Rosalie told her that it was written only a few days before her mother died. And then she put her hand inside her dress, and brought out the locket, which she laid in Mrs. Leslie's hand.

'Do you remember that, Aunt Lucy?' she said.

'Yes, darling, I do,' said her aunt; 'I gave that to your mother years ago, before she left home. I remember I saved up my money a very long time that I might buy it.'

'My mother did love that locket so much,' said the child. 'She said she had promised you she would keep it as long as she lived; and I was to tell you she had kept her promise, and had hidden it away, lest any one should take it from her. I have tried so hard to keep it safe since she died; but we have been in a great big lodging-house all the winter, and I was so afraid it would be found and taken from me.'

'Where is your father now, Rosalie?' asked her aunt anxiously.

'He's dead,' said the child; 'he has been dead more than a week.' And she told of the accident, and the death in the hospital.

'Then you are my little girl now, Rosalie,' said her Aunt Lucy—'my own little girl, and no one can take you from me.'

'Oh, dear Aunt Lucy, may I really stay?'

'Why, Rosalie darling, I have been looking for you everywhere, and my only fear was that your father would not want to part with you. But now, before we talk any more, you must come in and see your uncle; he is very anxious to see you.'

Rosalie felt rather afraid again when her aunt said this, but she rose up to follow her into the house. And then she remembered the little kitten, which she covered with her shawl, and which was lying fast asleep under it in a corner of the arbour.

'Please, Aunt Lucy,' said Rosalie timidly, 'is there a bird?'

'Where, dear?' said Mrs. Leslie, looking round her. 'I don't see one.'

'No, not here in the garden,' explained Rosalie; 'I mean in your house.'

'No, there's no bird, dear child. What made you think there was one?'

'Oh, I'm so glad, so very, very glad!' said Rosalie, with tears in her eyes. 'Then, may I bring her?'

'Bring who, Rosalie dear? I don't understand.'

'Oh, Aunt Lucy,' said the child, 'don't be angry. I have a little kit here under my shawl. She's the dearest little kit; and we love each other so much, and if she had to go away from me I think she would die. She loved me when no one else in the lodging-house did, except Betsey Ann; and if only she may come, I'll never let her go in any of the best rooms, and I won't let her be any trouble.' When she had said this, she lifted up the shawl, and brought out the black kitten, and looked up beseechingly into her aunt's face.

'What a dear little kitten!' said her aunt. 'May will be pleased with it, she is so fond of kittens; and only the other day I promised her I would get one. Bring her in, and she shall have some milk.'

A great load was lifted off little Rosalie's heart when Mrs. Leslie said this, for it would have been a very great trial to her to part from her little friend.

Rosalie's uncle received her very kindly, and said, with a pleasant smile, that he was glad the little prairie flower had been found at last, and was to blossom in his garden. Then she went upstairs with her Aunt Lucy to get ready for dinner. She thought she had never seen such a beautiful room as Mrs. Leslie's bedroom. The windows looked out over the fields and trees to the blue hills beyond.

Then her aunt went to a wardrobe which stood at one end of the room, and brought out a parcel, which she opened, and inside Rosalie saw a beautiful little black dress very neatly and prettily made.

'This is a dress which came home last night for my little May,' said her aunt, 'but I think it will fit you, dear; will you try it on?'

'Oh, Aunt Lucy,' said Rosalie, 'what a beautiful frock! but won't May want it?'

'No; May is from home,' said Mrs. Leslie. 'She is staying with your Uncle Gerald. There will be plenty of time to have another made for her before she returns.'

Rosalie hardly knew herself in the new dress, and felt very shy at first; but it fitted her exactly, and her Aunt Lucy was very much pleased indeed.

Then Mrs. Leslie brought a black ribbon, and tied the precious locket round the little girl's neck; there was no longer any need to hide it.

After this they went downstairs, and Rosalie had a place given her at dinner between her uncle and her aunt. Jessie looked very much astonished when she was told to put another knife and fork and plate on the table for Rosalie; but her mistress, seeing her surprised face, called her into another room, and in a few words told her who the little girl was, at the same time begging her, for Rosalie's sake, not to mention to any one in the village where and how she had seen the child before. This Jessie most willingly promised. 'There was nothing she would not do for Rosalie's sake,' she said; 'for she would never have been there had it not been for Rosalie and her mother.'

That afternoon the child sat on a stool at her Aunt Lucy's feet, and they had a long talk, which little Rosalie enjoyed more than words can tell. She gave her aunt a little history of her life, going back as far as she could remember. Oh, how eagerly Mrs. Leslie listened to anything about her poor sister! How many questions she asked, and how many tears she shed!

When Rosalie had finished, her aunt told her once more how glad and thankful she was to have her there, and more especially as she felt sure that her little Rosalie loved the Good Shepherd and tried to please Him, and therefore would never, never do any harm to her own little May, but would rather help her forward in all that was right.

The child slipped her hand in that of her Aunt Lucy when she said this, with a very loving and assuring smile. 'So now, Rosalie dear, you must look upon me as your mother,' said Mrs. Leslie; 'you must tell me all your troubles, and ask me for anything you want, just as you would have asked your own dear mother.'

'Please, Aunt Lucy,' said Rosalie gratefully, 'I think the pasture is very green indeed.'

'What do you mean, my dear child?'

'I mean, Aunt Lucy, I have been very lonely and often very miserable lately; but the Good Shepherd has brought me at last to a very green pasture; don't you think He has?'

But Mrs. Leslie could only answer the little girl by taking her in her arms and kissing her.

That night, when Rosalie went upstairs to bed, Jessie came into her room to bring her some hot water.

'Oh, Jessie,' said Rosalie, 'how are Maggie and the baby?'

'To think you remembered about them!' said Jessie. 'They are quite well. Oh, you must see them soon.'

'Then they were all right when you got home?' said the child, 'were they, Jessie?'

'Oh yes, God be thanked!' said Jessie; 'I didn't deserve it. Oh, how often I thought of those children when I lay awake those miserable nights in the circus! They had cried themselves to sleep, poor little things; when my mother came back, she found them lying asleep on the floor.'

'Wasn't she very much frightened?' asked Rosalie.

'Yes, that she was,' said Jessie, with tears in her eyes; 'she was so ill when I came home that I thought she would die. I thought she would die, and that I had killed her. She had hardly slept a wink since I went away; and she was as thin as a ghost. I hardly should have know her anywhere else.'

'But what did she say when you came back?'

'Oh, she wasn't angry a bit,' said Jessie; 'only she cried so, and was so glad to have me back, that it seemed almost worse to bear than if she had scolded. And then quite quickly she began to get better; but if I hadn't come then, I believe she would have died.'

'Is she quite well now?' asked the child.

'Yes; quite strong and well again, and as bright as ever. She was so glad when Mrs. Leslie said I might come here and be her housemaid. My mother says it's a grand thing to lie down to sleep at night feeling that her children are all safe, and she can never thank God enough for all He has done for me. I told her of you and your mother, and she prays for you every day, my mother does, that God may reward and bless you.'

The next morning, when Rosalie opened her eyes, she could not at first remember where she was. She had been dreaming she was in the dismal lodging-house, and that Betsey Ann was touching her hand, and waking her for their ten minutes' reading.

But when she looked up, it was only her little black kitten, which was feeling strange in its new home, and had crept up to her, and was licking her arm.

'Poor little kit!' said Rosalie, as she stroked it gently; 'you don't know where you are.' The kitten purred contentedly when its little mistress comforted it, and the child was at leisure to look round the room.

It was her Cousin May's little room; and her Aunt Lucy had said she might sleep there until another room just like it was made ready for her. Rosalie was lying in a small and very pretty iron bedstead with white muslin hangings. She peeped out of her little nest into the room beyond.

Through the window she could see the fields and the trees and the blue hills, just as she had done from her Aunt Lucy's windows. The furniture of the room was very neat and pretty, and Rosalie looked at it with admiring eyes. Over the washhand-stand, and over the chest of drawers, and over the table were hung beautiful illuminated texts, and Rosalie read them one by one as she lay in bed. There was also a little bookcase full of May's books, and a little wardrobe for May's clothes. How much Rosalie wondered what her cousin was like, and how she wished the time would arrive for her to come home!

Then the little girl jumped out of bed, and went to the window to look out. The garden beneath her looked very lovely in the bright morning sunshine; the roses and geraniums and jessamine were just in their glory, and underneath the trees she could see patches of lovely ferns and mosses. How she wished her mother could have been there to see them also! She had always loved flowers so much.

Rosalie dressed herself, and went out into the garden. How sweet and peaceful everything seemed! She went to the gate—that gate which she had looked through a year before—and gazed out into the blue distance. As she was doing so, she heard the sound of wheels, and three or four caravans bound for Pendleton fair went slowly down the road.

What a rush of feeling came over the child as she looked at them! Oh, how kind the Good Shepherd had been to her! Here she was, safe and sheltered in this quiet, happy home; and she would never, never have to go to a fair or a theatre again. Rosalie looked up at the blue sky above, and said from the bottom of her heart—

'Oh, Good Shepherd, I do thank Thee very much for bringing me to the green pasture! Oh, help me to love Thee and please Thee more than ever! Amen.'



CHAPTER XXIII

THE GREEN PASTURE

That morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Leslie took Rosalie with her in the pony carriage to Pendleton. She wanted to buy the furniture for the child's little bedroom.

Rosalie enjoyed the drive very much indeed, and was charmed and delighted with all the purchases which her aunt made.

When they were finished, Rosalie said, 'Aunt Lucy, do you think we should have time to call for a minute on old Mother Manikin? she will want so much to hear whether I got safely to Melton.'

Mrs. Leslie willingly consented; she had felt very grateful to the little old woman for all her kindness to her poor sister and her little niece, and she was glad of an opportunity of thanking her for it.

They found Mother Manikin very poorly, but very pleased indeed to see Rosalie. She had been taken ill in the night, she said, quite suddenly. It was something the matter with her heart. In the morning she had asked one of the neighbours to go for the doctor, and he had said it was not right for her to be in the house alone.

'So what am I to do, ma'am?' said Mother Manikin. 'Here's the doctor says I must have a girl; but I can't bear all these new-fangled creatures, with their flounces, and their airs, and their manners. Old age must have its liberties; and I can't put up with them. No, I can't abide them,' she said, shaking her little fist. 'You couldn't tell me of a girl, could you, ma'am? I can't give very high wages, but she should have a comfortable home.'

'Oh, Aunt Lucy,' cried Rosalie, springing from her seat, 'what do you think of Betsey Ann? would she do?'

'And who's Betsey Ann, child?' inquired Mother Manikin.

Rosalie told Betsey Ann's sad story: how she had been born in a workhouse; how she had never had any one to love her, but how she had been scolded and found fault with from morning till night.

Mother Manikin could hardly keep from crying as the story went on.

'She shall come at once,' said she decidedly, as soon as Rosalie had finished. 'Tell me where she lives, and I'll get Mr. Westerdale to write to her at once.'

'Oh, but she can't read,' said Rosalie, in a very distressed voice; 'and her mistress would never let her have the letter. What are we to do?'

But when Mother Manikin heard where Betsey Ann lived, she said there would be no difficulty at all about it. Mr. Westerdale knew the Scripture Reader there; she had often heard him speak of him; and he would be able to go to the house and make it all right.

So Rosalie felt very comforted about poor Betsey Ann.

Rosalie's first week in the green pasture passed by very happily. She walked and read and talked with her Aunt Lucy, and went with her to see the poor people in the village, and grew to love her more day by day, and was more and more thankful to the Good Shepherd for the green pasture to which He had brought her.

And after a week May came home. Such a bright little creature she was; Rosalie loved her as soon as she saw her. But it was no strange face to Rosalie; it was a face she had often gazed at and often studied, for little May was the image of the girl in the locket; it might have been her own picture, she was so like what her mother was at her age.

May and Rosalie were the best friends at once, and from that time had everything in common. They did their lessons together, they walked together, and they played together, and were never known to quarrel or to disagree.

Some little time after May's return, the two children went together in the pony carriage to Pendleton. They had two important things to do there. One was, to buy a present for Popsey, the little girl with the pitcher of milk; and the other was, to call on Mother Manikin to see if Betsey Ann had arrived.

The two children had each had a half-sovereign given them by Mr. Leslie; and Rosalie wished to spend hers in something very nice for little Popsey. But the difficulty was to choose what it should be. All the way to Pendleton, May was proposing different things: a book, a work-box, a writing-case, etc; but at the mention of all these Rosalie shook her head. 'Popsey was too small for any of these,' she said; 'she could not read, nor sew, nor write.' So then May proposed a doll, and Rosalie thought that was a very good idea.

Palmer, the old coachman, was asked to drive to a toyshop; and then, after a long consultation, and an immense comparison of wax dolls, composition dolls, china dolls, rag dolls, and wooden dolls, a beautiful china doll very splendidly dressed was chosen, and laid aside for Rosalie.

But as she still had some money left, she also chose a very pretty spectacle-case for Popsey's grandfather, and a beautiful little milk-jug for the kind old grandmother. The milk-jug was a white one, and the handle was formed by a cat which was supposed to be climbing up the side of the jug and peeping into the milk. Rosalie was delighted with this directly she saw it, and fixed upon it once. For she had not forgotten the little pitcher of milk, and the service it had been to her, and she thought that the cat on the milk-jug would remind Popsey of the little black kitten of which she had been so fond.

All these parcels were put carefully under the seat in the pony-carriage, and then they drove to Mother Manikin's.

Who should open the door but Betsey Ann, looking the picture of happiness, and dressed very neatly in a clean calico dress, and white cap and apron. Betsey Ann's slipshod shoes and her rags and tatters were things of the past; she looked an entirely different girl.

'La, bless you!' she cried when she saw Rosalie; 'I'm right glad to see you again.' And then she suddenly turned shy, as she looked at the two young ladies, and led the way to the parlour, where Mother Manikin was sitting.

The old lady was full of the praises of her new maid, and Betsey Ann smiled from ear to ear with delight.

'Are you happy, Betsey Ann?' whispered Rosalie, as May was talking to Mother Manikin.

'Happy?' exclaimed Betsey Ann; 'I should just think I am! I never saw such a good little thing as she is. Why, I've been here a whole week, and never had a cross word, I declare I haven't; did you ever hear the like of that?'

'Oh, I am so glad you are happy!' said Rosalie.

'Yes, He—I mean the Good Shepherd—has been good to me,' said Betsey Ann. 'But wait a minute, Rosalie,' she said, as she saw that Rosalie was preparing to go. 'I've got a letter for you.'

'A letter for me?' exclaimed Rosalie. 'Who can it be from?'

'I don't know,' said Betsey Ann. 'It came the day after you left, and I kept it, in hope of being able to send it some day or other. I just happened to be cleaning the doorstep when the postman brought it. Says he, "Does Miss Rosalie Joyce live here?" So I says, "All right, sir; give it to me;" and I caught it up quite quick, and I poked it in my pocket. I wasn't going to let her get it. I'll get it for you if you'll wait a minute.'

When Betsey Ann came downstairs, she put the letter in Rosalie's hand. It was very bad and irregular writing, and Rosalie could not in the least imagine from whom it had come.

The letter began thus—

'My dear Miss,

'I hope this finds you well, as it leaves me at present; but not so poor Toby, who once you knew. Leastways, I hope he is well, because he is in a better place than this; but he has been very badly off a long while, and last Saturday he died.

'But he told me where you lived; he said you was his master's daughter, and it was you as taught him about the Good Shepherd.

'I told him, as I was one of his mates, I would write, and tell you he died quite happy, knowing that his sins was forgiven.

'He was a good lad, was Toby. We was a very bad lot when he came to our concern; but he read to us, spelling out the words quite slow like, every evening; and there's a many of us that is like new men since we heard him.

'There was one piece he read quite beautiful, and never so much as spelt a word. It was about the Shepherd looking for a sheep, and bringing it home on His shoulder.

'And he would talk to us about that as good as a book, and tell of a picture he had seen in your caravan, and what you used to teach him about it.

'And just before he died, says he, "Tom, write and tell Miss Rosie; she'll be glad like to hear I didn't forget it all."

'So now I've wrote, and pardon my mistakes, and the liberty.

'From yours truly,

'THOMAS CARTER.'

Rosalie was very thankful to receive this letter; she had often wondered what had become of poor Toby; and it was a great comfort to her to know that he had not forgotten the lessons they had learned together in the caravan. It was very pleasant to be able to think of him, not in the theatre or a lodging-house, but in the home above, where her own dear mother was.

* * * * *

Rosalie did not grow tired of her green pasture, nor did she wish to wander into the wide world beyond. As she grew older, and saw from what she had been saved, she became more and more thankful.

She was not easily deceived by the world's glitter and glare and vain show; for Rosalie had been behind the scenes, and knew how empty and hollow and miserable everything worldly was.

She had learned lessons behind the scenes that she would not easily forget. She had learned that we must not trust to outward appearances. She had learned that aching hearts are often hidden behind the world's smiling faces. She had learned that there is no real, no true, no lasting joy in anything of this world. She had learned that whosoever drinketh of such water—the water of this world's pleasures and amusements—shall thirst again; but she had also learned that whosoever drinketh of the water which the Lord Jesus Christ gives, even His Holy Spirit, shall never thirst, but shall be perfectly happy and satisfied. She had learned that the only way of safety, the only way of true happiness, was to be found in keeping near to the Good Shepherd, in hearkening to His voice, and in following His footsteps very closely.

All these lessons Rosalie learnt by her PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES.

THE END