16 A GENTLEMAN WAS STANDING BY HER BEDSIDE THIS TIME (P. 327).

But you and I, dear reader, know that our Rose had been neither robbed nor made away with. We know that she had, as Uncle Archie believed, taken the purse, changed her dress, and gone forth into the wide world alone; but we also know that the reason of her absence, of her not returning to the happy home of her childhood, was not that she had been robbed and made away with, but that she had left it, and, as she resolved, for ever, of her own free will.

And now we will leave that unhappy, desolate home of hers for a little while, and follow the steps of the poor misguided child, and see whither they lead her, and what it is that she is doing.

When she walked through that well-known door out into the street, she had no idea what she meant to do, except to go away and hide herself and her misery from everybody, and most of all from those to whom she had been everything, and was now, as she foolishly thought, nothing, and worse than nothing. She was not Miss Burke: she was not Uncle Archie's niece. He had cast her off, he had taken Aileen instead of her, and she would never, never see one of them again. She did not blame Uncle Archie; she did not think him unkind; she considered that he could not help himself. She was not his niece---Aileen was. That was the whole of the matter, and in that lay her anguish. She might have borne it had there been no one to take her place, had the sorrow only been that she was not her father's daughter and her uncle's niece. Perhaps, then, the possibility of her remaining the same to Mr. Burke, and being as deeply loved by him as ever, might have crossed her mind, but as it was, she never recognised it for a moment as a possibility. Aileen was there. Aileen was his niece, she was not; and so it seemed to her that she had no place in the world.

She walked rapidly away, without an idea of

where she would go. She had a thick veil on, which she kept down. She was tall for her age, and in her plain dark dress no one looked at her, or thought about her, or considered it strange that she should be out there walking through Dublin by herself. She knew that she had never done such a thing before in all her happy, guarded, cared-for life, but no one else knew it or noticed her.

Suddenly she thought that she would go to London. In London she could find something to do, she could earn her own bread-every one could do that in London, because it was so large a place ; and it was so large a place, also, that no one need be found there-she was sure that she could hide there quite securely-no one need be found in London unless they wished it.

So, full of this intention, she walked straight away to the North Wall, where she had sometimes accompanied Aileen when she embarked for Holyhead, and from which she knew vessels sailed direct for London also. She determined to go in a London steamer if she could, as then she need not change or have any trouble till she actually landed in London; and as, fortunately for her wishes, a boat sailed within half an hour of her making inquiries at the office, she had not the least difficulty in carrying out her plan. In her quiet dress she excited no attention, especially as all those around were in a bustle, and occupied with their own affairs, and in a short time from the moment in which she had seen Uncle Archie kiss Aileen and call her his niece—and yet, how long a time it seemed to her! --she found herself seated on the deck of a steamer, and rushing across the Bay of Dublin, out, out towards the open sea. No one spoke to her or thought about her. In fact, there are very few passengers go in the boats from Dublin to London : they are chiefly for cattle and luggage; and as for the sailors on board, they were engaged with their own affairs, and had no time for other things.

When it began to get dark she went down to her berth, and there, in spite of her misery, she fell asleep; for children cannot live without sleep, and poor Rose was, after all, only a child. By-and-by, the sea grew rough, the steamer tossed about, and Rose became ill, and for many hours she was so ill that she forgot her unhappiness in her bodily sufferings.

before. She opened the sacred book at random, and her eye fell on the following words :—

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

"Inherit the earth," thought Rose sorrowfully. "I have lost my heritage, all of the earth that I care for-my home, my uncle, the very thing I was, all, all gone. Inherit the earth. Ah, yes! it is happy for those who inherit the earth."

Then she read the verse again, but instead of going on, as at first, to the last half of the text, her attention was caught by the four words with which it begins :

"Blessed are the meek."

A new flood of thoughts rushed into her heart as she read them-thoughts and feelings that had never been hers before during her whole life. The meek? Who were the meek? the blessed meek who were to inherit the earth?

Had she ever been meek? Was meekness known to her at all? Was it—not what she expected from others, but what she had never given to them. herself? She had been gay and triumphant, loving and beloved, kind and generous, perhaps, when it came in her pleasant way to be so; but meek? had she ever, ever been meek? Had she not taken love, and deference, and petting, and cherishing all for granted-all as her right? And now, now in this terrible present, this changed life that had come on her, when she had ceased to "inherit " her "earth," she suddenly saw that beautiful past in a new light-saw her own character, her own self in a new light also, and felt with a terrible repentance that she had not been meek.

And she felt it when it was too late, when she could no longer show meekness to those to whom she owed so much.

Poor little Rose! I wonder whether any maiden of her years was ever quite so miserable before? Alone in the small cabin of a strange steamer, which was carrying her rapidly away from every thing and person that she loved-having lost all that made life dear to her, and believing that she had lost it for ever, and now suddenly, for the first time, perceiving her faults, feeling, with a repentance that was as strong as it was new, that she had not deserved her happiness--for the first time experiencing remorse, and with no one to turn to for comfortno Uncle Archie, no Aileen, no Miss Smyly, no Bridget even-no one. Then, indeed, Cain's words came in her ears, those terrible words, "My punishment is greater than I can bear."

Rose never forgot those moments of her life-not when she is quite an old woman will she forget them. She really thought her heart was going to

and that she was then and there to die; and, miserable as she was, she would almost have been glad to die, but for the dreadful thought of her unfitness that followed on her new repentance. A panic of terror seized her; she fell down on her knees, and, with torrents of tears, prayed to God for pardon and peace-prayed, poor child, with her whole heart, suddenly awakened to its sinfulness -prayed as she had never prayed in her whole life before-and was comforted with a comfort that amazed herself. Ah, Rose! those moments you thought the most miserable were in reality the most blessed of your life, for they were the first in which you learned the power of prayer.

She was tolerably composed before the steamer entered the docks, and she was able to take her little bag in her hand and go on shore without attracting attention. Had she been in a steamer with many passengers and other gentlefolk besides herself, she could hardly have passed out without being spoken to. She knew that the thing to do now was to take a cab and drive to some part of London that she was acquainted with, but what to do when she got there she did not know. She dared not go to the pleasant hotel where she had stayed with her uncle during the visits to London they had sometimes paid, because they knew her there, and would be so surprised at her being alone. She thought she would drive to some shop she knew, or rather, that she would tell the cabman to take her to this shop, as she must give him some direction, and that she would get out at the door, though she need not enter it, and perhaps by that time she would have thought where she had better go and what she had better do.

To a large West End shop, accordingly, she went, and there she got out of the cab, paid her fare, and was left standing on the pavement alone, not one bit nearer a knowledge of what she was going to do than she had been when she had first seated herself in the cab. At any rate, she could not stand there on the pavement by herself; so she walked slowly along Regent Street, feeling ill, tired, and frightened.

CHAPTER XII.-A HAPPY ENDING. RESENTLY she became aware that she was feeling more ill than either tired or frightened. Indeed, the sensation of fear began to diminish as that of sickness increased; she was not sure either that she was so very tired now. Her pulse beat fast, and her head felt excited. She had had enough to fatigue her in the long voyage and violent suffering on board, first physical, and afterwards mental, and

perhaps it was only a form of fatigue she was now experiencing. She had heard Miss Smyly speak of being too tired to sleep, and of how, when she was too tired to sleep, she would be restless, and toss about in her bed for half the night; and she thought that was perhaps her case now, for though she felt so extremely ill, she was restless and excited, and was sure that sleeping or resting would be quite impossible to her.

She felt her head getting hot, and it ached violently, and began to throb, and then it was giddy, and for a second or two she could not see. She was not the least frightened now, or even surprised; it seemed quite natural that she could not see, only it was a pity she was in such a crowd. She put out her hands to feel her way, and then she saw again, quite distinctly, people all walking about, and gay shop windows. Where could she be? This was not Grafton Street. Was she not on board a steamer? Yes, for she felt it rocking about, unsteady beneath her feet, and waving round her. Where could she be going? Why was she on board a steamer instead of at home? And why was there no sea, only people, and shops, and houses? Oh! what had happened? Were they all dead? or why was there no home?

As she thought this she gave a loud scream, or she thought she did, only she heard no noise. Was she asleep? and was this what she had been told of, a nightmare, when you try to wake yourself by speaking, but are dumb, and choke with the sounds you cannot utter?

Suddenly she felt herself falling, though why she fell she did not know. "Uncle Archie!" she knew she was saying, but in such a strange voice that she did not recognise it as her own, and after that she was aware of nothing more-only a shock, a stunned feeling, and then unconsciousness.

When Rose recovered her senses she did not in the least know where she was, or, indeed, for some time who she was. She was in bed, a small white bed in a little cell, or place divided off by itself, but yet part of a large long room, in which were numbers of little cells or places just like hers, with small white beds in them, and sick people in the beds. But these Rose could not see because of the screens, that made every one of these divisions like a little room by itself. She opened her eyes and looked languidly about her. A woman in a dark dress, with white apron and cap, and a kind face, whose eyes gazed down into hers with a cheerful, friendly glance of welcome, was standing by her side.

The look was so pleasant that Rose smiled as their eyes met, and the woman smiled also. Then she put something, in a cup with a spout to it, to her

lips, from which she swallowed a warm nice drink, and then closing her eyes, which felt strangely tired and weak, she slept soundly, a soothing remembrance of that kind face and smile attending her into dreamland.

Two or three wakings of this kind-always the kind smiling face-always something to take held to her lips-and more power of seeing, hearing, and understanding each time.

At last she found she could speak, and said in a very low tone, surprised at the power, and surprised at the sound of her own voice, "Where am I?”

The woman smiled just the same as ever, only her whole face seemed to smile now, instead of her mouth alone, and it was with a pleased bright expression.

"You are in bed, dear, because you have been ill," she answered cheerfully.

“And who are you, please?"

"I am your nurse."

"My nurse! Am I little? Am I not almost grown up?"

"You are not little; you are almost grown up. I am only your nurse because you have been ill-a sick nurse, you know."

"I like you," said Rose wearily, and again fell asleep.

But the next time she woke she began to think and remember-to think a little, and to remember a very little also. She could not tell who she was or where she was, but she felt as if she should understand and remember if any one would tell her those two important facts; so after she had been fed, and had looked well about her, and had puzzled herself a good deal, she said, "Is this home?"

"It is home just now, when you are ill, you know," was the reply, spoken in a soothing way. "Yes, but-but-who am I? and who are you? Please, please tell me ; it worries me so."

"Yes, dear; but it is only because you are weak that you don't know. I will tell you what has happened to you. You have had a bad fever-scarlet fever and you have been delirious, and not known any one; and now you are quite well, only you are so very weak that you can't remember."

"Scarlet fever?" questioned Rose thoughtfully. "I have heard of that before. Did any one pull down my dress? and was my chest all red?"

"Yes, exactly,” replied the nurse, smiling. "You were red all over, and your skin will peel off by. and-by."

"Where am I?"

"Why, you are in London, you know. You live in London, don't you?"

"In London? How can I be in London? I never was there, except for little short times.”

"Where are you, then?" asked the nurse, with an interest she could not suppress.

Then Rose only turned blank, confused, puzzled eyes towards her, and very soon afterwards fell asleep again.

But on her next waking she remembered distinctly all the nurse had said to her, and that she was in London. How she came to be in London she could not think. A gentleman was standing by her bedside this time, who, when she opened her eyes, looked down into them as the nurse had done, smiled at her, felt her pulse, and said in a bright way, "Well, you are doing nicely, are you

not?"

"You are not Doctor Little," Rose said wonderingly.

"No; I am Doctor Smith. Where does Doctor Little live now? I don't know of one of that name out of Dublin."

"Yes, Dublin, of course!" cried Rose, delighted. "Dublin; but she said it was London. Dublin, of course! Oh, please, where are Uncle Archie and Aileen? Oh! why don't they come to me? Is Bridget there? Oh! Uncle Archie, why don't you come?" and she began to cry.

"All right," said the doctor to the nurse, and they looked at each other with congratulating eyes. "You are not afraid of her exciting herself, sir ?"

"Not a bit of it; it will do her no harm at all, only good. She will recollect everything now." Rose felt relieved by the tears she had shed. "Please do tell me where I am. She said it was London; but how could it be? It is Dublin, is not it?"

"No," said the doctor; "it is London. But if you will tell me where Uncle Archie is, I will send for him."

"How did I come here?" asked Rose.

"You were taken ill out of doors, and brought here."

“It was Dora O'Grady had scarlet fever, and I caught it from her, I dare say. I took her on my knee after the dancing lesson, and her little chest was red, and so we had to go home-all of us."

66

And were you taken ill on your way home?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, no ; I went home, and -"here Rose paused, her face flushed, and then became suddenly pale. She remembered everything in one moment. She saw herself standing on the landing-place, looking in through the drawing-room door while Uncle Archie drew Aileen to him and kissed her, saying, "Then you are my niece." She heard the emphasis on the you which had driven her from the house. She knew again who she was and

who she was not; the old feelings, almost of rage, in the extremity of her anguish, were rushing back into her heart, when suddenly she remembered more still-the remorse she had felt in the cabin of the steamer, and the prayer she had uttered there, flashed across her brain, the soothing calm that followed the prayer filled her poor little heart; she shut her eyes, and again prayed silently, but very fervently, for strength and help, while her lips softly formed themselves into the words, "Blessed are the meek."

66

After that she cried very quietly for some time. The doctor and the nurse watched her with kindly interest. "Now," said he at last, "you will tell us who you are, and all about yourself, so that we may send for your friends-for Uncle Archie, and Aileen, and Bridget."

"I am afraid I cannot tell you anything," was her only reply; and for the present her two new friends left her alone, thinking she had had quite excitement enough for one day.

I must explain to you where Rose was, and what had happened to her after she fell down in Regent Street, as there is no reason why you should not know, though the nurse was afraid to tell her, lest the thought of it should frighten her while she was so weak. The fact is, she had caught the same fever that little Dora O'Grady sickened with in her arms, and she had fallen down in a sort of fainting fit, which was the beginning of the illness, and she had been picked up by a policeman and taken to a hospital, where she was well nursed through a long and dangerous fever, from which she was beginning to recover when she first opened her eyes, and saw the kind face of the nurse looking down at her. Hospitals, you know, are large buildings built for poor people who cannot afford to pay for nursing and medicines when they are ill. There are the best doctors there, and the best nurses; and medicine and food and everything are given for nothing. And if any persons are taken ill in the streets of London who are poor or homeless, they are taken at once to a hospital, where they are well attended to in every way. And so our Rose was carried there in her extremity, and her nurse and doctor were greatly puzzled about her, and most anxious to find out who she was, and to tell her friends that she was there, for they saw at once that she was a gentleman's daughter, and could not understand how it happened that she was walking in Regent Street by herself, and had fallen down ill there, with nobody to take care of her.

But after Rose had recollected who she was, and all her sad history, she did not communicate it to either the nurse or the doctor, for she felt as if she ought not to do so. She thought she ought

to try to earn her own livelihood, and that it would be wrong and mean to let them write to Uncle Archie. It would be the same thing as asking him to support her out of charity when perhaps he might not wish to do so. I think her being still so weak from her illness was partly the cause of Rose feeling in this way, and that as she got stronger she would be able to judge better, and to remember all that Uncle Archie had done for Aileen, and that he would be at least as anxious to do as much for her. But with her mind weakened as much as her body by illness, she only felt that it would be wicked of her to seem to ask him for anything, and that she could not bear to return home in Aileen's place, while Aileen occupied hers.

I can hardly tell you how puzzled they were in the hospital as to how they were to find out the friends of this poor little girl, who would not tell them a word about herself. She was so weak, and the subject agitated her so much, that they did not dare to press it; indeed they began to fancy that some hallucinations might have been left by the fever, and that there was no real reason why she was so mysterious, and it would not only be very mischievous to her health to press her to speak, but that as she recovered, the illusion, whatever it was, would die away of itself, and she would by-andby tell them who she was, and where she lived. However, to hasten matters without injuring her, they put the following advertisement into two newspapers published in Dublin :

"If Uncle Archie, Aileen, or Bridget want to hear anything of a little girl about thirteen, initials R. B.-Rose embroidered on handkerchiefs-they must apply to Dr. Smith, Hospital, Street, London,"

to

Two days after this advertisement had been sent by post from London to Dublin a cab dashed up Hospital, and a gentleman in travelling costume, dusty, and in a violent hurry, sprang from it and inquired for Dr. Smith. Dr. Smith was engaged for the moment, and the stranger was shown into the waiting-room, where he paced up and down more like a wild beast in a cage than one gentleman calling on another.

After a delay of about ten minutes, which seemed to the man who was waiting like as many hours, Dr. Smith made his appearance with a polite inquiry as to what "he could do for him.”

The stranger almost thrust into his face a crum. pled newspaper, placing his finger on one particular spot as he thrust it, and called out in a voice scarcely audible from emotion, "The ad. vertisement!

"Ah, yes, I see-the newspaper," replied Dr.