Rose Clark. Fern Fanny

forget me."

      Rose thought there was little fear of that, as she followed Dolly out of the house.

      "A very nice woman, that Mrs. Markham," said Dolly, as they walked to the stable where she had left her horse and chaise, "a very nice woman."

      Rose made no reply.

      "I dare say though, you don't like her at all, do you?"

      "No," said Rose.

      "Why not, I should like to know?" asked Dolly, tartly.

      "I had rather not tell, if you please," answered Rose.

      The civil manner in which the refusal was couched irritated Dolly.

      "You are as like your mother as two peas," said she, angrily; "you look just like her, and speak just like her."

      "Do you think so?" asked the child, her whole face brightening.

      "I don't know why you should look so pleased about it. Maria was a thriftless creature. No learning but book learning."

      "Please don't speak so of my mamma," and the tears stood in Rose's eyes.

      "I shall speak just as I please of her," said Dolly; "she was my sister before she was your mother, by a long spell, and I don't know why I am bound to love her for that reason, when there was nothing to love in her."

      "But there was," said Rose. "She was sweet, and gentle, and loving, and oh, Aunt Dolly, she was every thing to me," and the hot tears trickled through Rose's slender fingers.

      "Fiddle-faddle! Now ain't you ashamed, you great baby, to be bawling here in the street, as if I was some terrible dragon making off with you? That's all the thanks I get for taking you out of the church-yard and putting you in that nice Orphan Asylum."

      "If you had only left me in the church-yard," sobbed Rose.

      Dolly was quite too angry to reply. The very bows on her bonnet trembled with rage.

      After a pause, she turned round, and laying her hands on Rose's trembling shoulders, said,

      "Now, look here, Rose Clark, now just take a fair and square look at me. I don't look much like your gentle mother, as you call her, do I?"

      "No, no," sobbed Rose, with a fresh burst of tears.

      "Well, I ain't like her in any thing. I ain't a-going to pet you, nor make of you, nor spoil you, as she did. You are bound out to me, and you have got your bread and butter to earn. I have no taste for cry-babies nor idlers, and if you don't work and mind too, the committee of the Orphan Asylum shall know the reason why; you may find worse quarters than my milliner's shop," and Dolly stopped, not that the subject, but her breath, was exhausted.

      The morning was calm and serene, and the road through which Dolly's old horse plodded, very lovely. There had been heavy rains for days before, and now, as they left the city behind them, the sun shone out, and bright drops hung glistening on the trees, shrubs, and grass blades, and the spicy pines and way-side flowers sent forth their sweetest odors. The little birds, too, came out, pluming their wings for a sunny flight far – far into the clear blue ether, whither Rose longed to follow them.

      Such a burst of song as they went!

      It thrilled through every fibre of the child's frame.

      Rose glanced at the frowning face beside her. There was no appreciation there. No, Dolly was thinking how much work she could get out of the feeble child by her side, the helpless orphan in whose veins her own blood flowed.

      On they went – the old horse, and Dolly, and Rose.

      Wreaths of mist rolled up from the valleys, crept along the hill-sides, and were eagerly drunk up by the sun's warm breath, leaving the earth fresh and fair as when it first came from the forming hand of God.

      Cottages they passed, nestled among the trees, on whose happy thresholds children clambered on a mother's knee.

      Churches too, whose glistening spires pointed to that Heaven where Rose longed to be at rest; and far, far away, the silver lake gleamed in the bright sunlight; oh, how gladly, on its peaceful bosom, would the child have floated away!

      "For mercy's sake, what are you thinking about," asked Dolly, "with that curious look in your eyes, and the color coming and going in your face that way?"

      "I was thinking," said the child, her eyes still fixed on the silver lake, "how beautiful God made the earth, and how sad it was there should be – "

      "What now?" asked Dolly tartly.

      "Any sorrow in it," said Rose.

      "The earth is well enough, I s'pose," said Dolly. "I never looked at it much, and as to the rest of your remark, I hope you will remember it when you get home, and not plague my life out, when I want you to work. Let's see; you will have the shop to sweep out, the window shutters to take down and put up, night and morning, errands to run, sewing, washing, ironing, and scrubbing to do, dishes to wash, beside a few other little things.

      "Of course you will have your own clothes to make and to mend, the sheets and towels to hem, and be learning meanwhile to wait on customers in the shop; I shan't trust you with the money-drawer till I know whether you are honest."

      Rose's face became crimson, and she involuntarily moved further away from Dolly.

      "None of that now," said that lady, "such airs won't go down with me. It is a pity if I can't speak to my own sister's child."

      Rose thought this was the only light in which she was likely to view the relationship, but she was too wise to reply.

      "There's no knowing," said Dolly, "what you may have learned among those children at the Asylum."

      "You put me there, Aunt Dolly," said Rose.

      "Of course I put you there, but did I tell you to learn all the bad things you saw?"

      "You didn't tell me not; but I never would take what belonged to another."

      "Shut up now – you are just like your mother ex – actly;" and Dolly stopped here, considering that she could go no further in the way of invective.

      And now they were nearing the village. Rose thought it looked much prettier at a distance than near.

      There was an ugly, dirty tavern in the main street, on whose gaudy sign-board was painted "The Rising Sun;" and on whose piazza were congregated knots of men, smoking, chewing, swearing, and bargaining, by turns; for it was cattle-fair Monday, and the whole population was astir.

      Herds of cattle; sheep, cows, calves, oxen, and pigs, divided off into little crowded pens, stood bleating and lowing in the blazing sun, half dead with thirst, while their owners were chaffering about prices.

      On the opposite side of the street were temporary booths, whose owners were making the most of the day by opening oysters, and uncorking bottles for the ravenous farmers; little boys stood by, greedily devouring the dregs of the glasses whenever they could dodge a boxed ear. A few sickly trees were planted here and there, at the sides of the road, which seemed to have dwindled away in disgust at their location. On a small patch of green, dignified by the name of the Park, an ill-assorted, heterogeneous company were drilling for 'lection, presenting arms, etc., in a manner that would have struck Napoleon dumb.

      Dolly's house was on the further side of "the Park," a two story wooden tenement, of a bright red color, planted on a sand bank close to the road side, unornamented with a single green thing, if we may except some gawky boys who were eyeing the tin soldiers and peppermint candy in the milliner's window, and who had been attentively listening to the swearing cattle-dealers and picking up stray lobster-claws which good fortune had thrown in their way.

      "That her?" whispered Daffodil (Dolly's factotum), pointing to Rose, as she assisted Dolly to alight. Dolly nodded.

      "Why – she'd be a real beauty if she was only a little fatter, and didn't stoop, and her eyes weren't so big, and she wasn't so pale."

      "I don't see any beauty," mumbled Dolly, "she looks exactly like her mother."

      "O no – of course she isn't a beauty," said Daffy, retracting her involuntary