At last they came to a large sign-post, at a corner where four roads met; and here Toby said Jessie must leave them. But before she went there was a little whispered conversation between Rosalie and her mother, which ended in Jessie's carrying away in her pocket no less than half of Mother Manikin's present.

'You'll need it before you get home, dear,' said the sick woman; 'and mind you go straight to your mother. Don't stop till you run right into her arms! And when you see Mrs. Leslie, just tell her you met with a poor woman in a caravan, called Norah, who knew her many years ago.'

'Yes,' said Jessie; 'I'll tell her.'

'And say that I sent my respects--my love to her; and tell her I have not very long to live, but the Good Shepherd has sought me and found me, and I'm not afraid to die. Don't forget to tell her that.'

'No,' said Jessie; 'I'll be sure to remember.'

The poor girl was very sorry to leave them; she kissed Rosalie and her mother many times; and as she went down the road, she kept turning round to wave her handkerchief, till the caravan was quite out of sight.

'So those girls knew nothing about it, Rosalie darling,' said her mother, when Jessie was gone.

'Nothing about what, mammie dear?'

'Don't you remember the girls that stood by our show when the procession went past? They wished they were Britannia, and thought she must be so happy and glad.'

'Oh yes!' said Rosalie; 'they knew nothing about it. All the time poor Jessie was so miserable she did not know what to do with herself.'

'It's just the mistake I made, Rosalie darling, till I came behind the scenes, and knew how different everything looks when one is there. And so it is, dear, with everything in this world; it is all disappointing and vain when one gets to know it well.'

As evening drew on, they left the moor behind, and turned into a very dark and shady road with trees on both sides of the way. Rosalie's mother was sleeping, for the first time since early morning, and Rosalie sat and looked out at the door of the caravan. The wood was very thick, and the long shadows of the trees fell across the road. Every now and then they disturbed four or five rabbits that were enjoying themselves by the side of the path, and ran headlong into their snug little holes as soon as they heard the creaking of the caravan wheels. Then an owl startled Rosalie by hooting in a tree overhead, and then several wood-pigeons cooed mournfully their sad good-nights.

The road was full of turnings, and wound in and out amongst the wood. Toby whistled a tune as he went along, and Rosalie sat and listened to him, quite glad that he broke the silence. She was not sorry when they left the wood behind and came into the open country. And at last there glimmered in the distance the lights of a village, where Toby said they would spend the night. He pulled up the caravan by the wayside, and begged a bed for himself in a barn belonging to one of the small village farms.

The next day was Sunday. Such a calm, quiet day, the very air seemed full of Sabbath rest. The country children were just going to the Sunday school as the caravan started.

Their mothers had carefully dressed them in their best clothes, and were watching them down the village street.

The sick woman had had a restless and tiring night. Little Rosalie had watched beside her, and was weary and sad. Her poor mother had tossed from side to side of her bed and could find no position in which she was comfortable. Again and again the child altered her mother's pillow, and tried to make her more easy; but though the poor woman thanked her very gently, not many minutes had passed before she wanted to be moved again.

But the Sunday stillness seemed to have a soothing effect on the sick woman; and as they left the village she fell asleep.

For hours that sleep lasted, and when she awoke she seemed refreshed and rested.

'Rosalie darling,' she said, calling her little girl to her side, 'I've had such a beautiful dream!'

'What was it, mammie dear?' asked Rosalie.

'I thought I was looking into heaven, Rosalie dear, in between the bars of the golden gates; and I saw all the people dressed in white walking up and down the streets of the city. And then somebody seemed to call them together, and they all went in one direction, and there was a beautiful sound of singing and joy, as if they had heard some good news. One of them passed close to the gate where I was standing, Rosalie, and he looked so happy and glad, as he was hastening on to join the others. So I called him, darling, and asked him what was going on.'

'And what did he say, mammie dear?'

'He said, "It's the Good Shepherd who has called us; He wants us to rejoice with Him; He has just found one of the lost sheep, which He has been seeking so long. Did not you hear His voice just now, when He called us all together? didn't you hear Him saying, 'Rejoice with Me for I have found My sheep which was lost'?"

'And then they all began to sing again, and somehow I knew they were singing for me, and that I was the sheep that was found. And then I was so glad that I awoke with joy! And oh, Rosalie darling, I know my dream was true, for I've been asking Him to find me again and again, and I'm quite sure that He wanted to do it, long before I asked Him.'

'Oh, mammie dear,' said Rosalie, putting her hand in her mother's, 'I _am_ so glad!'

Rosalie's mother did not talk any more then; but she lay very quietly, holding Rosalie's hand, and every now and then she smiled, as if the music of the heavenly song were still in her ears, and as if she still heard the Good Shepherd saying, 'Rejoice with Me, for I have found My sheep which was lost.'

Then they passed through another village, where the bells were ringing for afternoon service, and the sick woman listened to them very sorrowfully.

'I shall never go to church again, Rosalie darling,' she said.

'Oh, mammie,' said little Rosalie, 'don't talk like that! When you get better, we'll go together. We could easily slip into the back seats, where nobody would see us.'

'No, Rosalie,' said her mother; 'you may go, my darling, but _I_ never shall.'

'Why not, mammie dear?'

'Rosalie,' said her mother, raising herself in bed and putting her arm round her child, 'don't you know that I am going to leave you? don't you know that in about a week's time you will have no mother?'

Rosalie hid her face in her mother's pillow and sobbed aloud.

'Oh, mammie, mammie dear!--mammie, don't say that! please don't say that!'

'But it's true, little Rosalie,' said her mother; 'and I want you to know it. I don't want it to take you by surprise. And now stop crying, darling, for I want to talk to you a bit; I want to tell you some things whilst I can speak.

'My poor, poor darling!' said the mother, as the child continued sobbing.

She stroked her little girl's head very gently; and after a long, long time the sobbing ceased, and Rosalie only cried quietly.

'Little woman,' said her mother, 'can you listen to me now?'

Rosalie pressed her mother's hand, but she could not answer her.

'Rosalie, darling, you won't be sorry for your mother; will you, dear? The Good Shepherd has found me, and I'm going to see Him. I'm going to see Him, and thank Him, darling; you mustn't cry for me. And I want to tell you what to do when I'm dead. I've asked your father to let you leave the caravan, and live in some country village; but he won't give his consent, darling; he says he can't spare you. So, dear, you must keep very quiet. Sit in the caravan and read your little Testament by yourself; don't go wandering about the fair, darling. I've been asking the Good Shepherd to take care of you; I told Him you would soon be a little motherless lamb, with nobody to look after you, and I asked Him to put you in His bosom and carry you along. And I believe He will, Rosalie dear; I don't think He'll let you get wrong. But you must ask Him yourself, my darling; you must never let a day pass without asking Him: promise your mother, Rosalie-let her hear you say the words.'

'Yes, mammie dear,' said Rosalie, 'I promise you.'

'And if ever you can go to your Aunt Lucy, you must go to her and give her that letter; you remember where it is; and tell her, dear, that I shall see her some day in that city I dreamt about. I should never have seen her if it had not been for the Shepherd's love; but He took such pains to find me, and He wouldn't give it up, and at last He put me on His shoulders and carried me home. I am very tired, Rosalie darling, but there is more that I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you that it will not do for you to ask your father about going to your Aunt Lucy, because he would never let you, and he would only be writing to her for money if he knew where she lived. But if you go through that village again, you might just run up to the house and give her the letter. I don't know if that would do either,' said the poor woman sadly; 'but God will find you a way. I believe you will get there someday. I can't talk any more now, darling, I am so tired! Kiss me, my own little woman.'

Rosalie lifted up a very white and sorrowful face, and kissed her mother passionately.

'You couldn't sing your little hymn, could you, darling?' said the sick woman.

Rosalie tried her very best to sing it, but her voice trembled so that she could not manage it. She struggled through the first verse, but in the second she quite broke down, and burst into a fresh flood of tears. Her poor mother tried to soothe her, but was too weak and weary to do more than stroke the child's face with her thin, wasted hand, and whisper in her ear a few words of love.

Very sorrowful were poor Rosalie's thoughts as she sat by her mother's bed.

She had known before that her mother was very ill, and sometimes she had been afraid as she thought of the future; but she had never before heard that dreadful fear put into words; she had never before known that it was not merely a fear, but a terrible reality. 'In about a week's time you will have no mother;' that was what her mother had told her.

And her mother was everything to Rosalie. She had never known a father's love or care; Augustus had never acted as a father to her. But her mother--her mother had been everything to her, from the day she was born until now. Rosalie could not imagine what the world would be like without her mother. She could hardly fancy herself living when her mother was dead.

She would have no one to speak to her, no one to care for her, no one to love her.

'Words of love Thy voice is speaking, 'Come, come to Me."'

What was it made her think of that just now? Was it not the Good Shepherd's voice, as He held the poor lonely lamb closer to His bosom?