'But I get up awful soon,' said Betsey Ann, 'afore ever there's a glimmer of light; would you mind being waked up then?'
'Oh, not a bit,' said Rosalie, 'if only you'll come.'
'I'll come safe enough,' said the girl. 'I like you!'
She took up her candle and was preparing to depart when she caught sight of the kitten's tail peeping out from Rosalie's pillow.
'La, bless you! there's that kit!'
'Yes,' said the child; 'we're keeping each other company, me and the kitten.'
'I should think it's glad to have a hit of quiet,' said Betsey Ann; 'it gets nothing but kicks all day long, and it's got no mother—she was found dead in the coal-cellar last week; it's been pining for her ever since.'
'Poor little thing!' said Rosalie; and she held it closer to her bosom; it was a link of sympathy between her and the kitten; they were both motherless, and both pining for their mother's love. She would pet and comfort that little ill-used kitten as much as ever she could.
Then Betsey Ann wished Rosalie good-night, took up her candle, and went to her own attic, dragging her shoes after her.
And Rosalie fell asleep.