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.'