'Then your father fell in with a strolling actor, who was in the habit of frequenting fairs, and between them, by selling their furniture, and almost everything they possessed, they bought some scenery and a caravan, and started a travelling theatre. And when the man died, Rosalie, he left his share of it to your father.
'So the last twelve years, my darling, I've been moving about from place to place, just as we are doing now. And in this caravan, my little girl, you were born. I was very ill a long time after that, and could not take my place in the theatre, and, for many reasons, that was the most miserable part of my miserable life.
'And now, little woman, I've told you all I need tell you at present; perhaps some day I can give you more particulars; but you will have some idea now why I am so utterly wretched.
'Yes, utterly wretched!' said the poor woman, 'no hope for this world, and no hope for the next.'
'Poor, poor mammie!' said little Rosalie, stroking her hand very gently and tenderly—'poor mammie dear!'
'It's all my own fault, child,' said her mother; 'I've brought it all upon my self, and I've no one but myself to blame.'
'Poor, poor mammie!' said Rosalie again.
Then the sick woman seemed quite exhausted, and lay upon her bed for some time without speaking or moving. Rosalie sat by the door of the caravan, and sang softly to herself—
'Jesus, I Thy face am seeking,
Early will I come to Thee.'
'Oh, Rosalie,' said her mother, looking round, 'I didn't come to Him early—oh, if I only had! Mind you do, Rosie; it's so much easier for you now than when you get to be old and wicked like me.'