Chapter 3 TEARS.

"'Twere most ungrateful."-V. S. LAKDOH.

Beata was not pretty. That was the first thing Rosy decided about her. She was small, and rather brown and thin. She had dark hair, certainly like Lady Albertine's in colour, but instead of splendid curls it was cut quite short-as short almost as Colin's-and her eyes were neither very large nor very blue. They were nice gray eyes, that could look sad, but generally looked merry, and about the rest of her face there was nothing very particular.

Rosy looked at her for a moment or two, and she looked at Rosy. Then at last Rosy said,

"Will you come into the drawing-room?" for she saw that her mother and Beata's uncle were already on their way there.

"Thank you," said Beata, and then they quietly followed the big people. Rosy's father was not at home, but he would be back soon, her mother was telling the gray-haired gentleman, and then she went on to ask him how "they" had got off, if it had been comfortably, and so on.

"Oh yes," he replied, "it was all quite right. Poor Maud!-"

"That's my mamma," said Beata in a low voice, and Rosy, turning towards her, saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"What a queer little girl she is!" thought Rosy, but she did not say so.

"-Poor Maud," continued the gentleman. "It is a great comfort to her to leave the child in such good hands."

"I hope she will be happy," said Rosy's mother. "I will do my best to make her so."

"I am very sure of that," said Beata's uncle. "It is a great disappointment to her grandmother not to have her with her. She is a dear child. Last week at the parting she behaved like a brick."

Both little girls heard this, and Beata suddenly began speaking rather fast, and Rosy saw that her cheeks had got very red.

"Do you think your mamma would mind if I went upstairs to take off my hat? I think my face must be dirty with the train," said Beata.

"Don't you like staying here?" said Rosy, rather crossly. "I think you should stay till mother tells is to go," for she wanted to hear what more her mother and the gentleman said to each other, the very thing that made Beata uncomfortable.

Beata looked a little frightened.

"I didn't mean to be rude," she said. Then suddenly catching sight of Manchon, she exclaimed, "Oh, what a beautiful cat! May I go and stroke him?"

"If you like," said Rosy, "but he isn't really a nice cat." And then, seeing that Beata looked at her with curiosity, she forgot about listening to the big people, and, getting up, led Beata to Manchon's cushion.

"Everybody says he's pretty," she went on, "but I don't think so, because I think he's a kind of bad fairy. You don't know how he froos sometimes, in a most horrible way, as if he was mocking you. He knows I don't like him, for whenever I'm vexed he looks pleased."

"Does he really?" said Beata. "Then I don't like him. I shouldn't look pleased if you were vexed, Rosy."

"Wouldn't you?" said Rosy, doubtfully.

"No, I'm sure I wouldn't. I wonder your mamma likes Manchon if he has such an unkind dis-I can't remember the word, it means feelings, you know."

"Never mind," said Rosy, patronisingly, "I know what you mean. Oh, its only me Manchon's nasty to, and that doesn't matter. I'm not the favourite. I was at my aunty's though, that I was-but it has all come true what Nelson told me," and she shook her head dolefully.

"Who is Nelson?" asked Beata.

"Aunty's maid. She cried when I came away, and she said it was because she was so sorry for me. It wouldn't be the same as there, she said. I shouldn't be thought as much of with two brothers, and Nelson knew that my mamma was dreadfully strict. I daresay she'd be still more sorry for me if she knew-" Rosy stopped short.

"Why don't you go on?" said Beata.

"Oh, I was going to say something I don't want to say. Perhaps it would vex you," said Rosy.

Beata considered a little.

"I'm not very easily vexed," she said at last. "I think I'd like you to go on saying it if you don't mind-unless its anything naughty."

"Oh no," said Rosy, "it isn't anything naughty. I was going to say Nelson would be still more sorry for me if she knew you had come."

"Me!" said Beata, opening her eyes. "Why? She can't know anything about me-I mean she couldn't know anything to make her think I would be unkind to you."

"Oh no, it isn't that. Only you see some little girls would think that if another little girl came to live with them it wouldn't be so nice-that perhaps their mammas and brothers and everybody would pet the other little girl more than them."

"And do you think that?" said Beata, anxiously. A feeling like a cold chill seemed to have touched her heart. She had never before thought of such things-loving somebody else "better," not being "the favourite," and so on. Could it all be true, and could it, worst of all, be true that her coming might be the cause of trouble and vexation to other people-at least to Rosy? She had come so full of love and gratitude, so ready to like everybody; she had said so many times to her mother, "I'm sure I'll be happy. I'll write and tell you how happy I am," swallowing bravely the grief of leaving her mother, and trying to cheer her at the parting by telling her this-it seemed very hard and strange to little Beata to be told that anybody could think she could be the cause of unhappiness to any one. "Do you think that?" she repeated.

Rosy looked at her, and something in the little eager face gave her what she would have called a "sorry" feeling. But mixed with this was a sense of importance-she liked to think that she was very good for not feeling what she said "some little girls" would have felt.

"No," she said, rather patronisingly, "I don't think I do. I only said some little girls would. No, I think I shall like you, if only you don't make a fuss about how good you are, and set them all against me. I settled before you came that I wouldn't mind if you were pretty or very clever. And you're not pretty, and I daresay you're not very clever. So I won't mind, if you don't make everybody praise you up for being so good."

Beata's eyes filled with tears.

"I don't want anybody to praise me," she said. "I only wanted you all to love me," and again Rosy had the sorry feeling, though she did not feel that she was to blame.

"I only told her what I really thought," she said to herself; but before she had time to reflect that there are two ways of telling what one thinks, and that sometimes it is not only foolish, but wrong and unkind, to tell of thoughts and feelings which we should try to leave off having, her mother turned round to speak to her.

"I think we should take Beata upstairs to her room, Rosy," she said. "You must be tired, dear," and the kind words and tone, so like what her own mother's would have been, made the cup of Beata's distress overflow. She gave a little sob and then burst into tears. Rosy half sprang forward-she was on the point of throwing her arms round Beata and whispering, "I will love you, dear, I do love you;" but alas, the strange foolish pride that so often checked her good feelings, held her back, and jealousy whispered, "If you begin making such a fuss about her, she'll think she's to be before you, and very likely, if you seem so sorry, she'll tell your mother you made her cry." So Rosy stood still, grave and silent, but with some trouble in her face, and her mother felt a little, just a very little vexed with Beata for beginning so dolefully.

"It will discourage Rosy," she said to herself, "just when I was so anxious for Beata to win her affection from the first."

And Beata's uncle, too, looked disappointed. Just when he had been praising her so for her bravery!

"Why, my little girl," he said, "you didn't cry like this even when you said good-bye at Southampton."

"That must be it," said Rosy's mother, who was too kind to feel vexed for more than an instant; "the poor child has put too much force on herself, and that always makes one break down afterwards. Come, dear Beata, and remember how much your mother wanted you to be happy with us."

She held out her hand, but to her surprise Beata still hung back, clinging to her uncle.

"Oh, please," she whispered, "let me go back with you, uncle. I don't care how dull it is-I shall not be any trouble to grandmother while she is ill. Do let me go back-I cannot stay here."

Beata's uncle was kind, but he had not much experience of children.

"Beata," he said, and his voice was almost stern, "it is impossible. All is arranged here for you. You will be sorry afterwards for giving way so foolishly. You would not wish to seem ungrateful, my little girl, for all your kind friends here are going to do for you?"

The word ungrateful had a magical effect. Beata raised her head from his shoulder, and digging in her pocket for her little handkerchief, wiped away the tears, and then looking up, her face still quivering, said gently, "I won't cry any more, uncle; I will be good. Indeed, I didn't mean to be naughty."

"That's right," he answered, encouragingly. And then Rosy's mother again held out her hand, and Beata took it timidly, and followed by Rosy, whose mind was in a strange jumble, they went upstairs to the room that was to be the little stranger's.

It was as pretty a little room as any child could have wished for-bright and neat and comfortable, with a pleasant look-out on the lawn at the side of the house, while farther off, over the trees, the village church, or rather its high spire, could be seen. For a moment Beata forgot her new troubles.

"Oh, how pretty!" she said, "Is this to be my room? I never had such a nice one. But when they come home from India for always, papa and mamma are going to get a pretty house, and choose all the furniture-like here, you know, only not so pretty, I daresay, for a house like this would cost such a great deal of money."

She was chattering away to Rosy's mother quite in her old way, greatly to Rosy's mother's pleasure, when she-Mrs. Vincent, opened a door Beata had not before noticed.

"This is Rosy's room," she said. "I thought it would be nice for you to be near each other. And I know you are very tidy, Bee, so you will set Rosy a good example-eh, Rosy?"

She said it quite simply, and Beata would have taken it in the same way half an hour before, but looking round the little girl caught an expression on Rosy's face which brought back all her distress. It seemed to say, "Oh, you're beginning to be praised already, I see," but Rosy's mother had not noticed it, for Rosy had turned quickly away. When, however, Mrs. Vincent, surprised at Beata's silence, looked at her again, all the light had faded out of the little face, and again she seemed on the point of tears.

"How strangely changeable she is," thought Mrs. Vincent, "I am sure she used not to be so; she was merry and pleased just as she seemed a moment or two ago."

"What is the matter, dear?" she said. "You look so distressed again. Did it bring back your mother-what I said, I mean?"

"I think-I suppose so," Beata began, but there she stopped. "'So," she said bravely, "it wasn't that. But, please-I don't want to be rude-but, please, would you not praise me-not for being tidy or anything."

How gladly at that moment would she have said, "I'm not tidy. Mamma always says I'm not," had it been true. But it was not-she was a very neat and methodical child, dainty and trim in everything she had to do with, as Rosy's mother remembered.

"What shall I do?" she said to herself. "It seems as if only my being naughty would make Rosy like me, and keep me from doing her harm. What can I do?" and a longing came over her to throw her arms round Mrs. Vincent's neck, and tell her her troubles and ask her to explain it all to her. But her faithfulness would not let her think of such a thing. "That would do Rosy harm," she remembered, "and perhaps she meant to be kind when she spoke that way. It was kinder than to have kept those feelings to me in her heart and never told me. But I don't know what to do."

For already she felt that Mrs. Vincent thought her queer and changeable, rude even, perhaps, though she only smiled at Beata's begging not to be praised, and Rosy, who had heard what she said, gave her no thanks for it, but the opposite.

"That's all pretence," thought Rosy. "Everybody likes to be praised."

Mrs. Vincent went downstairs, leaving the children together, and telling Rosy to help Beata to take off her things, as tea would soon be ready. Beata had a sort of fear of what next Rosy would say, and she was glad when Martha just then came into the room.

"Miss Rosy," she said, "will you please to go into the nursery and put away your dolls' things before tea. They're all over the table. I'd have done it in a minute, but you have your own ways and I was afraid of doing it wrong."

She spoke kindly and cheerfully.

"What a nice nurse!" thought Beata, with a feeling of relief-a sort of hope that Martha might help to make things easier for her somehow, especially as there was something very kindly in the way the maid began to help her to unfasten her jacket and lay aside her travelling things. To her surprise, Rosy made no answer.

"Miss Rosy, please," said Martha again, and then Rosy looked up crossly.

"'Miss Rosy, please,'" she said mockingly. "You're just putting on all that politeness to show off. No, I won't please. You can put the dolls away yourself, and, if you do them wrong, it's your own fault. You've seen lots of times how I do them."

"Miss Rosy!" said Martha, as if she wanted to beg Rosy to be good, and her voice was still kind, though her face had got very red when Rosy told her she was "showing off."

Beata stood in shocked silence. She had had no idea that Rosy could speak so, and, sad as it was, Martha did not seem surprised.

"I wonder if she is often like that," thought little Bee, and in concern for Rosy her own troubles began to be forgotten.

They went into the nursery to tea. Martha had cleared away Rosy's things and had done her best to lay them as the little girl liked. But before sitting down to the table, Rosy would go to the drawer where they were kept, and was in the middle of scolding at finding something different from what she liked when Colin and Fixie came in to tea.

"I say, Rosy," said Colin, "you might let us have one tea-time in peace,-Bee's first evening."

Rosy turned round upon him.

"I'm not a pretender," she said. "I'm not going to sham being good and all that, like Martha and you, because Bee has just come."

"I don't know what you've been saying to Martha," said Colin, "but I can't see why you need begin at me about shamming before Bee. You've not seen me for two minutes since she came. What's the matter, Fix? Wait a minute and I'll help you," for Fixie was tugging away at his chair, and could not manage to move it as he wanted.

"I want to sit, aside Bee," he said.

Rosy threw an angry look at him-he understood what she meant.

"I'll sit, aside you again to-morrow, Losy," he hastened to say. But it did no good. Rosy was now determined to find nothing right. There came a little change in their thoughts, however, for the kitchen-maid appeared at the door with a plate of nice cold ham and some of the famous strawberry jam.

"Cook thought the young lady would be hungry after her journey," she said.

"Yes, indeed," cried Colin, "the young lady's very hungry, and so are the young gentlemen, and so is the other young lady-aren't you, Rosy?" he said good-naturedly, turning to her. "He is really a very kind boy," thought Beata. "Tell cook, with my best compliments, that we are very much obliged to her, and she needn't expect to see any of the ham or the strawberry jam again."

It was later than the usual tea-hour, so all the children were hungry and, thanks to this, the meal passed quietly. Beata said little, though she could not help laughing at some of Colin's funny speeches. But for the shock of Rosy's temper and the confusion in her mind that Rosy's way of speaking had made, Bee would have been quite happy, as happy at least, she would have said, "as I can be till mamma comes home again," but Rosy seemed to throw a cloud over everybody. There was never any knowing from one minute to another how she was going to be. Only one thing became plainer to Bee. It was not only because she had come that Rosy was cross and unhappy. It was easy to see that she was at all times very self-willed and queer-tempered, and, though Bee was too good and kind to be glad of this, yet, as she was a very sensible little girl, it made things look clearer to her.

"I will not begin fancying it is because I am in her place, or anything like that," she said to herself. "I will be as good as I can be, and perhaps she will get to like me," and Rosy was puzzled and perhaps, in her strange contradiction, a little vexed at the brighter look that came over Bee's face, and the cheery way in which she spoke. For at the first, when she saw how much Bee had taken to heart what she said, though her best self felt sorry for the little stranger, she had liked the feeling that she would be a sort of master over her, and that the fear of seeming to take her place would prevent Bee from making friends with the others more than she, Rosy, chose to allow.

Poor Rosy! She would have herself been shocked had she seen written down in plain words all the feelings her jealous temper caused her. But almost the worst of jealousy is that it hides itself in so many dresses, and gives itself so many names, sometimes making itself seem quite a right and proper feeling; often, very often making one think oneself a poor, ill-treated martyr, when in reality, the martyrs are the unfortunate people that have to live with the foolish person who has allowed jealousy to become his master.

Beata's uncle left that evening, but before he went away he had the pleasure of seeing his little niece quite herself again.

"That's right," he said, as he bade her good-bye, "I don't know what came over you this afternoon."

Beata did not say anything, but she just kissed her uncle, and whispered, "Give my love to dear grandmother, and tell her I am going to try to be very good."