But little Rosalie was not satisfied, she looked very tenderly and sorrowfully at her mother; and the next morning she went timidly to tell her father that she did not think her mother would ever get through her part, she was too weak for it. But he told her shortly to mind her own business; so little Rosalie could do nothing more—nothing, except watch her mother very carefully and gently all that long, dreary Sunday, scarcely allowing her to rise from her seat, but fetching her everything she wanted, and looking forward, sick at heart, to the morrow.
The church-bells chimed in all directions, crowds of people in their Sunday clothes passed along the market-place to church or chapel; but to Rosalie and her mother Sunday brought no joy.
It was a fine, bright day, so most of the show-people were roaming about the town; but Rosalie's mother was too weak to go out, and her little girl did not like to leave her.
'Rosalie,' said her mother that Sunday afternoon, 'I'm going to give you a present.'
'A present for me, mammie dear?' said Rosalie.
'Yes, little woman. Pull that large box from under the bed. It's rather heavy, dear; can you manage it?'
'Oh yes, mammie dear, quite well.'
Rosalie's mother sat down by the box, and began to unpack it. At the top of the box were some of her clothes and Rosalie's; but it was a long time since she had turned out the things at the bottom of the box. She took out from it a small bundle pinned up in a towel, then, calling Rosalie to her side, she drew out the pins one by one, and opened it. Inside were several small parcels carefully tied up in paper.
In the first parcel was a little pair of blue shoes, with a tiny red sock.
'Those were my little Arthur's, Rosalie,' said her mother, with tears in her eyes; 'I put them away the day he was buried, and I've never liked to part with them. No one will care for them when I'm gone, though,' said she, with a sigh.