"Yes, a most striking resemblance. Her cap was blown back to the crown of her head by the barbarous exercise in which she had been engaged, her tongue actually protruded from her mouth, in the impotence of her rage, and her hard, dull-coloured eyes glowed like red-hot stones in their deep sockets." "'What do you want?' cried she, in a voice between a growl and a scream--'and who are you, and what is your business? You had better take care, or I'll make your back smart, in spite of your fine coat.' "I could not help smiling at the idea of being whipped by a woman, but I answered as sternly as possible--'I want humanity, for I am a man. My business is to snatch this child from your clutches, and to give you up to the city authorities for disturbing the public peace.' "'It is her fault, not mine,' replied she, a little intimidated by my threat--'she always screams and hollows when I whip her, as if I were murdering her, if I but scratch her skin. I gave her a task to do, and told her if she did not do it I would whip her--a good-for-nothing, lazy thing!--mope, mope from morning to night, nothing but mope and fret, while I'm drudging like a slave. I'm not going to support her any longer, if I have to turn her out of doors. She thinks because her mother happened to die here, I must give her a home, forsooth, and she do nothing to pay for it, the ungrateful hussy!'" "Oh! don't tell any more about that horrid old woman," interrupted Rosamond--"I want to hear about the little girl. What did she do?" "Why, she wept and sobbed, and said she did all she could, but that she was sick and weak, and she wished she was in the grave, by her poor mother's side, for there was nobody in the world to take care of her, and she knew not what would become of her. I told her impulsively that _I_ would see she was taken care of, and if that vile woman but lifted her finger against her once more, she should rue it to her heart's core." "There, Cecil, you have made a rhyme, so you must wish before you speak again," said Rosamond, laughing. "Well, I wish that poor, desolate child had a home like this, and a mother like Mrs. Clifford, and a companion like Rosamond--or I wish that I had a kind mother and sister, to whose care I could intrust her, or a sweet gentle wife--and it is the first time in my life I ever breathed that wish--who would be willing to protect and cherish her for my sake." "Is she a pretty child?" interrogated Mrs. Clifford, feelings best known to herself prompting the question. "Yes!" repeated Rosamond, eagerly, stealing a look in the glass at her own bright eyes, fair complexion, and curling locks--"is she pretty, and was she dressed nice?"