"Well, new or old, that child never will be good for any thing, with all my trying; she's just like her mother, ex-actly."
"There, now," said Dolly, "I am going into the bed-room to lie down; now see if you have sense enough to clear up here; get the dough off that pan and rolling-pin, put away the dredging-box, and salt, and lard, and butter, and things; throw away those apple chunks and raisin stuns, wash off the table, scrub up the floor, rinse out the dish-towels, and don't be all day about it."
As Dolly slammed the door to behind her, Rose sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, leaned her head on the table, and wept; she was growing older, and more capable of judging of the gross injustice done her.
Bitter, despairing thoughts came into her gentle heart, for it seemed as if the more patiently she bore her cross, the heavier it grew. She wondered if she could be worse off if she ran away, with the earth for her pillow, the skies for her shelter? Surely, strangers would not be more unfeeling than Dolly.
Oh, how could Dolly be sister to the gentle mother, whom she had seen drooping away day by day, and whose sweet, tender eyes had never yet faded from her sight. Rose remembered the murmured prayer with which she drew her little head upon her bosom the day she died, and now—she looked hopelessly about her. Hark—she thought she heard her name murmured in those same sweet, loving, maternal accents.
"Rose!"
Was it fancy? No! A bunch of flowers glanced through the open window and fell at her feet; a paper was twisted round the stem, and on it was written,
"FOR THE BABY'S FRIEND, LITTLE ROSE.
"When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take thee up."
A bright smile came to Rose's lip, and with a hurried glance around the kitchen, she hid the bouquet in her bosom, and stepped lightly to her tasks.
The baby's mother loved her; the flowers were rightly named—Heart's-ease.