How could she leave her? Her mother's hand was holding hers so tightly, her mother's eyes, whenever they were opened, were fixed on her so lovingly. How could she leave her mother, even for an hour, when the hours which she might still have with her were becoming so few?
Yet Rosalie dared not stay. Was not this the great fair her father had been counting on all the year, and from which he hoped to reap the greatest profit? And had he not told her that very night, that if she broke down in her part in this town, he would never forgive her as long as he lived?
No, there was no help for it; Rosalie must go. But not until the last moment—not until the very last moment—would she leave her dying mother. She dressed very quickly, and sat down in her little white dress beside her mother's bed. Once more she held her mother's cold hand, and gently stroked her pale face.
'Little Rosalie,' said her mother, 'my darling, are you going?—must you leave me?'
'Oh, mammie, mammie! it is so hard! so very, very hard!'
'Don't cry, my darling!—my little lamb, don't cry! It's all right. Lift me up a little, Rosalie.'
The child altered her mother's pillows very gently, and then the sick woman whispered—
'I'm close to the deep waters; I can hear the sound of them now. It's the river of death, Rosalie, and I've got to cross it, but I'm not afraid: the Good Shepherd has laid me on His shoulder, and, as I'm so very weak, I think He'll carry me through.'
This was said with great difficulty, and, when she had done speaking, the dying woman's head fell back on the pillow.
Rosalie could not speak; she could only kiss her mother's hand, and cry quietly as she watched. And then came her father's call to her to make haste and come into the theatre; and she had to disengage herself from her mother's hand, and, giving one last long look, to shut the door and leave her—leave her alone.