'Then, mammie, if you need repentance, you must be like the one sheep, not like the ninety-nine.'
'Yes, child, I'm a lost sheep, there's no doubt about that; I've gone very far astray,—so far that I don't suppose I shall ever get back again; it's much easier to get wrong than to get right; it's a very, very hard thing to find the right road when you've once missed it; it doesn't seem much use my trying to get back, I have such a long way to go.'
'But, mammie dear, isn't it just like the sheep?'
'What do you mean, Rosalie darling?'
'Why, the sheep couldn't find its way back, could it, mammie? sheep never can find their way. And this sheep didn't walk back; did it? He carried it on His shoulder, like my picture; I don't suppose it would seem so very far when He carried it.'
Rosalie's mother made no answer when her child said this, but she seemed to be thinking about it. She sat looking thoughtfully out of the window; much, very much was passing in her mind. Then Rosalie closed the Testament, and, wrapping it carefully in the paper in which it had been kept so many years, she hid it away in the box again.
It was Sunday evening now, and once more the church-bells rang, and once more the people went past with books in their hands. Rosalie wished very much that she could creep into one of the churches and hear another sermon. But just then her father and the men came back and wanted their tea; and, instead of the quiet service, Rosalie had to listen to their loud talking and noisy laughter.
And then her father sent for her into the large caravan, and made her go through her part of the play. She was just finishing her recital as the people passed back again from evening service.