'It can't be helped, child; I shall have to do it, so it's no use talking
about it; I may as well do it without making a fuss about it; your father
is put out to-night, darling, and it would never do to annoy him more.'

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 ?'