Years pass on. Some of the children have been bound out, others Death has more mercifully indentured into his own service. Rose has grown tall. Her step is slow and feeble, and her form has lost its roundness; but her eyes are beautiful from the light within, and her wee mouth has a grieved look which makes the beholder long to clasp her to his heart. Even the ugly charity-school bonnet which Markham has just tied under her chin, can not make her look ugly. Dolly stands waiting to take her to Difftown; she has no bundle to pack up, she has no regrets at leaving the Asylum, she has no hope for the future, for she has looked into Dolly's face with her clear calm eyes, and read her doom. "Rose, come and kiss me, darling, before you go," said Markham. "I always feel _so_ melancholy," she added, in an aside, to Dolly, "at parting with these dear children. It is quite impossible not to feel a motherly interest and solicitude after being with them so long. Good-by, dear Rose--don't _quite_ 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.