As soon as the play was over, she went up to her father, and, in spite of
the annoyed expression of his face, begged him to allow her to leave the
theatre and to go to her mother. But he told her angrily that she had
spoilt his profits quite enough for one night, and she must take care how
she dared to do so again.

Oh, what a long night that seemed to Rosalie! When they went out on the
platform between the performances, she gazed earnestly in the direction of
her mother's caravan. A light seemed to be burning inside, but more than
that Rosalie could not see.

It seemed as if the long hours would never pass away. Each time she went
through her recital, she felt glad that she had at least once less to say
it. Each time that the Town Hall clock struck, she counted the hours before
the theatre would close. And yet, when all was over, and when Rosalie was
at length allowed to return to the caravan, she hardly dared to enter it.
What would she find within?

Was her mother dead, and was her father hiding it from her till her part
was over, lest she should break down again?

Very, very gently she opened the door. There was a candle burning on the
table, and by its light Rosalie could see her mother lying on the bed. She
was very pale, and her eyes were tightly closed. But she was breathing, she
was not dead. The relief was so great that Rosalie burst into tears.

When she first came into the caravan, she thought that her mother was
alone, but a small hoarse whisper came from the corner of the caravan--