"I said," said Nancy, crossing her two stubby forefingers, "that I would bet you that pair of gold ear-rings you wanted, that they would stay where they were; meaning that the ear-rings would stay where they were—in the jeweler's shop."
"It is right down mean," said the pouting Patty; "see if I am not even with you before the week is out."
CHAPTER XXVI.
Poor Rose sat down in her old quarters, with Charley in her lap, trying to read in his pale face the probable duration of his sickness. Poor little fellow! he did not like the change. He missed the sheen of the pretty satin curtains, and the glitter of their gilded cornices. They were something for baby eyes to wonder and look at. He had quite exhausted those ugly attic walls, hung with the cook's dingy wardrobe. Even the pretty sunbeams in which babies love to see the little motes glitter and float, had been jealously excluded by the tyrannical Aunt Dolly; so poor Charley had nothing to do but roll his little restless head from side to side, and whimper.
Ah, there is something now to look at! The door creaks on its hinges, and an old crone, bent almost double, her nose and chin meeting, totters in, leaning on a stick. A striped cotton handkerchief thrown over her spare gray locks, and tied under her chin, and an old shawl over her cotton gown, complete her wardrobe.
At any other time this little weird figure, appearing so suddenly, would have terrified Rose; now her despairing thoughts had crowded out every other feeling, so she sat quite still as the old woman hobbled, mumbling, toward her.
"Why, Maria! there now. I knew you were not dead. I told them so, but they would not believe a word I said. You look as sweet as a lily. Where is your husband, dear? and little Rose? and all of 'em, and every body? I can't find any body I want to see. I am so tired and lonely. Don't you go away now, Maria. Did you buy that little doll for me to play with?" she asked, catching sight of Charley. "It opens and shuts its eyes, don't it dear, just like the waxen dolls? I like it—chut—chut—chut," and the old lady touched Charley under the chin with her wrinkled fingers. "Pull the wire and make the doll laugh again, dear," she said, looking up in Rose's face. "I would like it to play with. I get so tired, so tired. I stole away to-day; Dolly didn't know it. Do you know Dolly? does Dolly strike you? What made you stay away such a long time, Maria? Let us go to your house. I don't like to be locked up in Dolly's house. I get so tired, so tired—dearie me—dearie me—where's little Rose, Maria?"
Rose did not answer, for a fight was struggling dimly through her brain. She remembered long years ago, when she first came to Dolly's, that an old woman came there, not so bent as this old crone was now, but yet gray haired and wrinkled, and that Dolly spoke harshly to her, and tried to make her go away, and that the old lady cried, and said it was cold at the poor house, and that she was hungry, and then Dolly said she would give her a small piece of money, and something to eat, if she would promise never to come there again; and that Dolly sent her (Rose) into the kitchen till the old lady was gone, but that she had heard all they said through the thin green baize door.