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!'