"I am not a beggar," said the child, "I am mother's little Rose."
"Mother's little Rose?" repeated the matron, again, in the same sneering tone; "well—who was mother?"
"Mother is dead," said the child, with a quivering lip.
"No loss, either," said Mrs. Markham to Timmins, "since she did not know better than to let the child run in the streets."
"Mother was sick, and I had to go of errands," said the child, defensively.
"Ah, yes—always an excuse; but do you know that I am the matron of this establishment? and that you must never answer me back, in that way? Do you know that you must do exactly as I and the committee say? Timmins, bring me the scissors and let us lop off this mop of a wig," and she lifted up the clustering curls, behind which Rose seemed trying to hide.
"There—now you look proper and more befitting your condition," said Mrs. Markham, as the sheared lamb rose from its kneeling posture and stood before her. "Timmins, Timmins!" Mrs. Markham whispered, "don't throw away those curls; the hairdresser always allows me something handsome for them. It is curious what thick hair beggar children always have."
"But I am not a beggar," said Rose again, standing up very straight before Mrs. Markham.
"Look at it," said Mrs. Markham, with a sneer; "look at it, Timmins, it is 'not a beggar.' Look at its ragged frock, and soiled shawl, and torn pinafore; it 'is not a beggar.' We shall have some work to do here, Timmins. Come here, Rose."