'Don't ask me that now, darling; it's nearly time for us to go into the theatre. But before you go, just read those verses about your picture once through; we shall just about have time for it before your father comes.'
So Rosalie read once more the parable of the Lost Sheep.
'Rosalie, child,' said her mother, when she had finished, 'there are four words in that story which I've had in my mind, oh, so many times, since you read it last.'
'What are they, mammie dear?'
'"Until He find it," Rosalie. All last night I lay awake coughing, and I kept thinking there was no hope for me; it was no use my asking the Good Shepherd to look for me. But all of a sudden those words came back to me just as if some one had said them to me. "Until He find it—until He find it. He goeth after that which is lost until He find it." It seems He doesn't give up at once, He goes on looking until He find it. And then it seemed to me, Rosalie—I don't know if I was right, I don't know if I even dare hope it—but it seemed to me last night that perhaps, if He takes such pains and looks so long, if He goes on until He find it, there might even be a chance for me.'
'Are you ready?' said Augustus' voice, at the door of the caravan; 'we're just going to begin.'
Rosalie and her mother jumped hastily up, and, thrusting the Testament into the box, they hurried down the caravan steps and went into the theatre. There were still a few minutes before the performance commenced; and Rosalie made her mother sit down on a chair in the little room behind the stage, that she might rest as long as possible.
Several of the company came up to the poor woman, and asked her how she was, in tones which spoke of rough though kindly sympathy. Rosalie looked earnestly in their faces, and read there that they did not think her mother equal to her work; and it filled her little heart with sorrowful forebodings.
She had never seen her mother look more lovely than she did at the beginning of the play; there was a bright colour in her face, and her beautiful eyes shone more brilliantly than ever before. Rosalie really hoped she must be better, to look so well as that. But there was a weary, sorrowful expression in her face, which went to the child's heart. Her mother repeated the words of the play as if they were extremely distasteful to her, and as if she could hardly bear the sound of her own voice. In her eyes there was a wistful yearning, as if she were looking at and longing for something far, far away from the noisy theatre. She never smiled at the bursts of applause; she repeated her part almost mechanically, and, from time to time, Rosalie saw her mother's eyes fill with tears. She crept to her side, and put her little hand in hers as they went up to the platform after the first performance was over.
Her mother's hand was burning with fever, and yet she shivered from head to foot as they went out on the platform into the chill night air.