'Tell me all about it, child,' said Mother Manikin.
So Rosalie told her all—told her how and where her mammie had died; told her about the great lodging-house, and the lady of the house; told her about her father's marriage and death; told her of her Aunt Lucy, and the letter and the locket; told her everything, as she would have told her own mother. For Mother Manikin had a motherly heart, and Rosalie knew it; and the tired child felt a wonderful sense of comfort and rest in pouring out her sorrows into those sympathising ears.
But in the middle of Rosalie's story the little woman jumped up, saying hurriedly—
'Wait a minute, child; here's a strange kitten got in.'
She was just going to drive out the little black stranger, which was mewing loudly under the table, when the child stopped her.
'Please dear Mother Manikin, that's my little kit; she has come with me all the way, and she's very hungry—that's why she makes such a noise.'
In another minute a saucer of milk was placed on the rug before the fire, and the poor little kitten had enough and to spare.
Rosalie was very grateful to Mother Manikin, and very glad to be with her; but just as she was finishing her story, the large eight-day clock in the corner of the kitchen struck seven, and Rosalie started to her feet.
'Mother Manikin,' she said, 'I must be off. I've five miles farther to walk.'
'Stuff and nonsense, child!' said the old woman; 'do you think I'm going to let you go to-night? Not a bit of it, I can tell you. Old age must have its liberties, my dear, and I'm not going to allow it.'