"How do you like her?" said Rosy to Beata the first morning.

"I think she is kind," said Bee, but that was all she said.

It was true that Miss Pinkerton meant to be kind, but she did not manage to gain the children's hearts, and Bee soon came to understand why Rosy called her "pretending." She was so afraid of vexing anybody that she had got into the habit of agreeing with every one without really thinking over what they meant, and she was so afraid also of being blamed for Rosy's tempers that she would give in to her in any way. So Rosy did not respect her, and was sometimes really rude to her.

"Miss Pink," she said one morning a few days after lessons had begun again, "I don't want to learn any more arithmetic."

"No, my dear?" said Miss Pink, mildly. "But what will you do when you are grown-up if you cannot count—everybody needs to know how to count, or else they can't manage their money."

"I don't want to know how to manage my money," replied Rosy, "somebody must do it for me. I won't learn any more arithmetic, Miss Pink."

Miss Pink, as was a common way of hers in a difficulty with Rosy, pretended not to hear, but Beata noticed, and so, you may be sure, did Rosy, that they had no arithmetic that morning, though Miss Pink said nothing about it, leaving it to seem as if it were by accident.

Beata liked sums, and did them more quickly than her other lessons. But she said nothing. When lessons were over and they were alone, Rosy threw two or three books up in the air, and caught them again.

"Aha!" she said mischievously, "we'll have no more nasty sums—you'll see."

"Rosy," said Bee, "you can't be in earnest. Miss Pink won't leave off giving us sums for always."

"Won't she?" said Rosy. "She'll have to. I won't do them."

"I will," said Bee.

"How can you, if she doesn't give you any to do?"

"If she really doesn't give us any to do I'll ask her for them, and if she still doesn't, then I'll tell your mother that we're not learning arithmetic any more."

"You'll tell mamma," said Rosy, standing before her and looking very fierce.

"Yes," said Beata. "Arithmetic is one of the things my mother wants me to learn very well, and if Miss Pink doesn't teach it me I shall tell your mother."

"You mean tell-tale," cried Rosy, her face getting red with anger. "That's what you call being a friend to me and helping me to be good, when you know there's nothing puts me in such a temper as those horrible sums. I know now how much your kindness is worth," and what she would have gone on to say there is no knowing had not Fixie just then come into the room, and Rosy was not fond of showing her tempers off before her little brother.

Beata was very sorry and unhappy. She said nothing more, hoping that Rosy would come to see how mistaken she was, and the rest of the day passed quietly. But the next morning it was the same thing. When they came to the time at which they usually had their arithmetic, Rosy looked up at Miss Pink with a determined air.

"No arithmetic, Miss Pink, you know," she said.

Miss Pink gave a sort of little laugh.

"My dear Rosy," she said, "you are so very comical! Come now, get your slate—see there is dear Beata all ready with hers. You shall not have very hard sums to-day, I promise you."

"Miss Pink," said Rosy, "I won't do any sums. I told you so yesterday, and you know I mean what I say. If Bee chooses to tell tales, she may, but I won't do any sums."

Miss Pink looked from one to the other.

"There is no use my doing sums without Rosy," said Bee. "We are at the same place and it would put everything wrong."

"Yes," said Miss Pink. "I cannot give you separate lessons. It would put everything wrong. But I'm sure you're only joking, Rosy dear. We won't say anything about the sums to-day, and then to-morrow we'll go on regularly again, and dear Beata will see it will all be right."

"No," said Rosy, "it won't be all right if you try to make me do any sums to-morrow or any day."

Bee said nothing. She did not know what to say. She could hardly believe Rosy was the same little girl as the Rosy whom she had heard crying in the night, who had made her so happy by talking about trying to be good. And how many days the silly dispute might have gone on, there is no telling, had it not happened that the very next morning, just as they came to the time for the arithmetic lesson, the door opened and Mrs. Vincent came in.

"Good morning, Miss Pinkerton," she said. "I've come to see how you are all getting on,"—for Miss Pinkerton did not live in the house, she only came every morning at nine o'clock—"you don't find your new pupil very troublesome, I hope?" she went on, with a smile at Beata.

"Oh dear, no! oh, certainly not," said Miss Pinkerton nervously; "oh dear, no—Miss Beata is very good indeed. Everything's very nice—oh we're very happy, thank you—dear Rosy and dear Beata and I."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Mrs. Vincent, but she spoke rather gravely, for on coming into the room it had not looked to her as if everything was "very nice." Beata looked grave and troubled, Miss Pinkerton flurried, and there was a black cloud on Rosy's face that her mother knew only too well. "What lessons are you at now?" she went on.

"Oh, ah!" began Miss Pinkerton, fussing among some of the books that lay on the table. "We've just finished a chapter of our English history, and—and—I was thinking of giving the dear children a dictation."

"It's not the time for dictation," said Rosy. And then to Bee's surprise she burst out, "Miss Pink, I wonder how you can tell such stories! Everything is not quite nice, mamma, for I've just been telling Miss Pink I won't do any sums, and it's just the time for sums. I wouldn't do them yesterday, and I won't do them to-day, or any day, because I hate them."

"You 'won't' and you 'wouldn't,' Rosy," said her mother, so sternly and coldly that Bee trembled for her, though Rosy gave no signs of trembling for herself. "Is that a way in which I can allow you to speak? You must apologise to Miss Pinkerton, and tell her you will be ready to do any lessons she gives you, or you must go upstairs to your own room."

"I'll go upstairs to my own room then," said Rosy at once. "I'd 'pologise to you, mamma, if you like, but I won't to Miss Pink, because she doesn't say what's true."

"Rosy, be silent," said her mother again. And then, turning to Miss Pinkerton, she added in a very serious tone, "Miss Pinkerton, I do not wish to appear to find fault with you, but I must say that you should have told me of all this before. It is most mistaken kindness to Rosy to hide her disobedience and rudeness, and it makes things much more difficult for me. I am particularly sorry to have to punish Rosy to-day, for I have just heard that a friend is coming to see us who would have liked to find all the children good and happy."

Rosy's face grew gloomier and gloomier. Beata was on the point of breaking in with a request that Rosy might be forgiven, but something in Mrs. Vincent's look stopped her. Miss Pinkerton grew very red and looked very unhappy—almost as if she was going to cry.

"I'm—I'm very sorry—very distressed. But I thought dear Rosy was only joking, and that it would be all right in a day or two. I'm sure, dear Rosy, you'll tell your mamma that you did not mean what you said, and that you'll do your best to do your sums nicely—now won't you, dear?"

"No," said Rosy, in a hard, cold tone, "I won't. And you might know by this time, Miss Pink, that I always mean what I say. I'm not like you."

After this there was nothing for it but to send Rosy up to her own room. Mrs. Vincent told Miss Pinkerton to finish the morning lessons with Beata, and then left the schoolroom.

Bee was very unhappy, and Miss Pink by this time was in tears.

"She's so naughty—so completely spoilt;" she said. "I really don't think I can go on teaching her. She's not like you, dear Beata. How happily and peacefully we could go on doing our lessons—you and I—without that self-willed Rosy."

Bee looked very grave.

"Miss Pink," she said, "I don't like you to speak like that at all. You don't say to Rosy to her face that you think her so naughty, and so I don't think you should say it to me. I think it would be better if you said to Rosy herself what you think."

"I couldn't," said Miss Pink. "There would be no staying with her if I didn't give in to her. And I don't want to lose this engagement, for it's so near my home, and my mother is so often ill. And Mr. and Mrs. Vincent have been very kind—very kind indeed."

"I think Rosy would like you better if you told her right out what you think," said Bee, who couldn't help being sorry for Miss Pinkerton when she spoke of her mother being ill. And Miss Pink was really kind-hearted, only she did not distinguish between weak indulgence and real sensible kindness.

When lessons were over Mrs. Vincent called Bee to come and speak to her.

"It is Mr. Furnivale who is coming to see us to-day," she said. "It is for that I am so particularly sorry for Rosy to be again in disgrace. And she has been so much gentler and more obedient lately, I am really very disappointed, and I cannot help saying so to you, Bee, though I don't want you to be troubled about Rosy."

"I do think Rosy wants—" began Bee, and then she stopped, remembering her promise. "Don't you think she will be sorry now?" she said. "Might I go and ask her?"

"No, dear, I think you had better not," said Mrs. Vincent. "I will see her myself in a little while. Yes, I believe she is sorry, but she won't let herself say so."

Beata felt sad and dull without Rosy; for the last few days had really passed happily. And Rosy shut up in her own room was thinking with a sort of bitter vexation rather than sorrow of how quickly her resolutions had all come to nothing.

"It's not my fault," she kept saying to herself, "it's all Miss Pink's. She knew I hated sums—that horrid kind of long rows worst of all—and she just gave me them on purpose; and then when I said I wouldn't do them, she went on coaxing and talking nonsense—that way that just makes me naughtier. I'd rather do sums all day than have her talk like that—and then to go and tell stories to mamma—I hate her, nasty, pretending thing. It's all her fault; and then she'll be going on praising Bee, and making everybody think how good Bee is and how naughty I am. I wish Bee hadn't come. I didn't mind it so much before. I wonder if she told mamma as she said she would, and if that was why mamma came in to the schoolroom this morning. I wonder if Bee could be so mean;" and in this new idea Rosy almost forgot her other troubles. "If Bee did do it I shall never forgive her—never," she went on to herself; "I wouldn't have minded her doing it right out, as she said she would, but to go and tell mamma that sneaky way, and get her to come into the room just at that minute, no, I'll never—"

A knock at the door interrupted her, and then before she had time to answer, she heard her mother's voice outside. "I'll take it in myself, thank you, Martha," she was saying, and in a moment Mrs. Vincent came in, carrying the glass of milk and dry biscuit which the children always had at twelve, as they did not have dinner till two o'clock with their father's and mother's luncheon.

"Here is your milk, Rosy," said her mother, gravely, as she put it down on the table. "Have you anything to say to me?"

Rosy looked at her mother.

"Mamma," she said, quickly, "will you tell me one thing? Was it Bee that made you come into the schoolroom just at sums time? Was it because of her telling you what I had said that you came?"

Mrs. Vincent in her turn looked at Rosy. Many mothers would have refused to answer—would have said it was not Rosy's place to begin asking questions instead of begging to be forgiven for their naughty conduct; but Rosy's mother was different from many. She knew that Rosy was a strange character to deal with; she hoped and believed that in her real true heart her little girl did feel how wrong she was; and she wished, oh, how earnestly, to help the little plant of goodness to grow, not to crush it down by too much sternness. And in Rosy's face just now she read a mixture of feelings.

"No, Rosy," she answered very gently, but so that Rosy never for one instant doubted the exact truth of what she said, "no, Beata had not said one word about you or your lessons to me. I came in just then quite by accident. I am very sorry you are so suspicious, Rosy—you seem to trust no one—not even innocent-hearted, honest little Bee."

Rosy drew a long breath, and grew rather red. Her best self was glad to find Bee what she had always been—not to be obliged to keep to her terrible resolutions of "never forgiving," and so on; but her worst self felt a strange kind of crooked disappointment that her suspicions had no ground.

"Bee said she would tell you," she murmured, confusedly, "she said if I wouldn't go on with sums she'd complain to you."

"But she would have done it in an open, honest way," said her mother. "You know she would never have tried to get you into disgrace in any underhand way. But I won't say any more about Bee, Rosy. I must tell you that I have decided not to punish you any more to-day, and I will tell you that the reason is greatly that an old friend of ours—of your father's and mine——"

"Mr. Furniture!" exclaimed Rosy, forgetting her tempers in the excitement of the news.

"Yes, Mr. Furnivale," said her mother, and she could not keep back a little smile; "he is coming this afternoon. It would be punishing not only you, but your father and Bee and myself—all of us indeed—if we had to tell our old friend the moment he arrived that our Rosy was in disgrace. So you may go now and ask Martha to dress you neatly. Mr. Furnivale may be here by luncheon-time, and no more will be said about this unhappy morning. But Rosy, listen—I trust to your honour to try to behave so as to please me. I will say no more about your arithmetic lessons; will you act so as to show me I have not been foolish in forgiving you?"

The red flush came back to Rosy's face, and her eyes grew bright; she was not a child that cried easily. She threw her arms round her mother's neck, and whispered in a voice which sounded as if tears were not very far off,

"Mamma, I do thank you. I will try. I will do my sums as much as you like to-morrow, only—"

"Only what, Rosy?"

"Can you tell Miss Pink that it is to please you I want to do them, not to please her, mamma—she isn't like you. I don't believe what she says."

"I will tell Miss Pink that you want to please me certainly, but you must see, Rosy, that obeying her, doing the lessons she gives you by my wish, is pleasing me," said her mother, though at the same time in her own mind she determined to have a little talk with Miss Pink privately.

"Yes," said Rosy, "I know that."

She spoke gently, and her mother felt happier about her little girl than for long.

Mr. Furnivale did arrive in time for luncheon. He had just come when the little girls and Fixie went down to the drawing-room at the sound of the first gong. He came forward to meet the children with kindly interest in his face.

"Well, Fixie, my boy, and how are you?" he said, lifting the fragile little figure in his arms. "Why, I think you are a little bit fatter and a little bit rosier than this time last year. And this is your sister that I don't know," he went on, turning to Rosy, "and—why, bless my soul! here's another old friend—my busy Bee. I had no idea Mrs. Warwick had left her with you," he exclaimed to Mrs. Vincent.

Mrs. Warwick was Beata's mother. I don't think I have before told you Bee's last name.

"I was just going to tell you about it, when the children came in," said Rosy's mother. "I knew Cecilia would be so glad to know Bee was with us, and not at school, when her poor grandmother grew too ill to have her."

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Furnivale, "Cecy will be glad to hear it. She had no idea of it. And so when you all come to pay us that famous visit we have been talking about, Bee must come too—eh, Bee?"

Bee's eyes sparkled. She liked kind, old Mr. Furnivale, and she had been very fond of his pretty daughter.

"Is Cecy much better?" she asked, in her gentle little voice.

"Much better. We're hoping to come back to settle in England before long, and have a nice house like yours, and then you are all to come to see us," said Mr. Furnivale.

They went on talking for a few minutes about these pleasant plans, and in the interest of hearing about Cecilia Furnivale, and hearing all her messages, Rosy, who had never seen her, and who was quite a stranger to her father too, was naturally left a little in the background. It was quite enough to put her out again.

"I might just as well have been left upstairs in my own room," she said to herself. "Nobody notices me—nobody cares whether I am here or not. I won't go to stay with that ugly old man and his stupid daughter, just to be always put behind Bee."

And when Beata, with a slight feeling that Rosy might be feeling herself neglected, and full of pleasure, too, at Mrs. Vincent's having forgiven her, slipped behind the others and took Rosy's hand in hers, saying brightly, "Won't it be nice to go and stay with them, Rosy?" Rosy pulled away her hand roughly, and, looking very cross, went back to her old cry.

"I wish you'd leave me alone, Bee. I hate that sort of pretending. You know quite well nobody would care whether I went or not."

And poor Bee drew back quite distressed, and puzzled again by Rosy's changeableness.



CHAPTER VII.

MR. FURNITURE'S PRESENT.

"And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than these." —SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL.

"Your little girl is very pretty, unusually pretty," Mr. Furnivale was saying to Rosy's mother, as he sat beside her on the sofa during the few minutes they were waiting for luncheon, "and she looks so strong and well."

"Yes," said Mrs. Vincent, "she is very strong. I am glad you think her pretty," she went on. "It is always difficult to judge of one's own children, I think, or indeed of any face you see constantly. I thought Rosy very pretty, I must confess, when I first saw her again after our three years' separation, but now I don't think I could judge."

Mrs. Vincent gave a little sigh as she spoke, which made Mr. Furnivale wonder what she was troubled about. The truth was that she was thinking to herself how little she would care whether Rosy was pretty or not, if only she could feel more happy about her really trying to be a good little girl.

"Your little girl was with Miss Vincent while you were away, was she not?" said Mr. Furnivale.

"Yes," said Rosy's mother, "her aunt is very fond of her. She gave herself immense trouble for Rosy's sake."

"By-the-bye, she is coming to see you soon, is she not?" said Mr. Furnivale. "She is, as of course you know, an old friend of ours, and she writes often to ask how Cecy is. And in her last letter she said she hoped to come to see you soon."

"I have not heard anything decided about it," replied Mrs. Vincent. "I had begun to think she would not come this year—she was speaking of going to some seaside place."

"Ah, but I rather think she has changed her mind, then," said Mr. Furnivale, and then he went on to talk of something else to him of more importance. But poor Mrs. Vincent was really troubled.

"I should not mind Edith herself coming," she said to herself. "She is really good and kind, and I think I could make her understand how cruel it is to spoil Rosy. But it is the maid—that Nelson—I cannot like or trust her, and I believe she did Rosy more harm than all her aunt's over-indulgence. And Edith is so fond of her; I cannot say anything against her," for Miss Vincent was an invalid, and very dependent on this maid.

Little Beata noticed that during luncheon Rosy's mother looked troubled, and it made her feel sorry. Rosy perhaps would have noticed it too, had she not been so very much taken up with her own fancied troubles. She was running full-speed into one of her cross jealous moods, and everything that was said or done, she took the wrong way. Her father helped Bee before her—that, she could not but allow was right, as Bee was a guest—but now it seemed to her that he chose the nicest bits for Bee, with a care he never showed in helping her. Rosy was not the least greedy—she would have been ready and pleased to give away anything, so long as she got the credit of it, and was praised and thanked, but to be treated second-best in the way in which she chose to imagine she was being treated—that, she could not and would not stand. She sat through luncheon with a black look on her pretty face; so that Mr. Furnivale, whom she was beside, found her much less pleasant to talk to than Bee opposite, though Bee herself was less bright and merry than usual.

Mrs. Vincent felt glad that no more was said about Aunt Edith's coming. She felt that she did not wish Rosy to hear of it, and yet she did not like to ask Mr. Furnivale not to mention it, as it seemed ungrateful to think or speak of a visit from Miss Vincent except with pleasure. After luncheon, when they were again in the drawing-room, Mr. Furnivale came up to her with a small parcel in his hand.

"I am so sorry," he began, with a little hesitation, "I am so sorry that I did not know Beata Warwick was with you. Cecy had no idea of it, and she begged me to give your little girl this present we bought for her in Venice, and now I don't half like giving it to the one little woman when I have nothing for the other."

He opened the parcel as he spoke; it contained a quaint-looking little box, which in its turn, when opened, showed a necklace of glass beads of every imaginable colour. They were not very large—each bead perhaps about the size of a pea—of a large pea, that is to say. And some of them were long, not thicker, but twice as long as the others. I can scarcely tell you how pretty they were. Every one was different, and they were beautifully arranged so that the colours came together in the prettiest possible way. One was pale blue with little tiny flowers, pink or rose-coloured raised upon it; one was white with a sort of rainbow glistening of every colour through it; two or three were black, but with a different tracery, gold or red or bright green, on each; and some were a kind of mixture of colours and patterns which seemed to change as you looked at them, so that you could fancy you saw flowers, or figures, or tiny landscapes even, which again disappeared—and no two the same.

"Oh how lovely," exclaimed Rosy's mother, "how very, very pretty."

"Yes," said Mr. Furnivale, "they are pretty. And they are now rare. These are really old, and the imitation ones, which they make in plenty, are not half so curious. Cecy thought they would take a child's fancy."

"More than a child's," said Mrs. Vincent, smiling. "I think they are lovely—and what a pretty ornament they will be—fancy them on a white dress!"

"I am only sorry I have not two of them," said Mr. Furnivale, "or at least something else for the other little girl. You would not wish me, I suppose, to give the necklace to Beata instead of to Rosy?" he added.

Now Mrs. Vincent's own feeling was almost that she would better like it to be given to Beata. She was very unselfish, and her natural thought was that in anything of the kind, Bee, the little stranger, the child in her care, whose mother was so far away, should come first. But there was more to think of than this feeling of hers—

"It would be doing no real kindness to Bee," she said to herself, "to let Mr. Furnivale give it to her. It would certainly rouse that terrible jealousy of Rosy's, and it might grow beyond my power to undo the harm it would do. As it is, seeing, as I know she will, how simply and sweetly Beata behaves about it may do her lasting good, and draw the children still more together."

So she looked up at Mr. Furnivale with her pretty honest eyes—Rosy's eyes were honest too—and like her mother's when she was sweet and good—and said frankly,

"You won't think me selfish I am sure—I think you will believe that I do it from good motives—when I ask you not to change, but still to give it to Rosy. I will take care that little Bee does not suffer for it in the end."

"And I too," said Mr. Furnivale, "If I can find another necklace when I go back to Venice. I shall not forget to send it—indeed, I might write to the dealer beforehand to look out for one. I am sure you are right, and on the whole I am glad, for Cecy did buy it for your own little girl."

"Would you like to give it her now?" said Mrs. Vincent, and as Mr. Furnivale said "Yes," she went to the window opening out on to the lawn where the three children were now playing, and called Rosy.

"I wonder what mamma wants," thought Rosy to herself, as she walked towards the drawing-room rather slowly and sulkily, leaving Bee and Fixie to go on running races (for when I said "the children" were playing, I should have said Beata and Felix—not Rosy). "I daresay she will be going to scold me, now luncheon's over. I wish that ugly old Mr. Furniture would go away," for all the cross, angry, jealous thoughts had come back to poor Rosy since she had taken it into her head again about Bee being put before her, and all her good wishes and plans, which had grown stronger through her mother's gentleness, had again flown away, like a flock of frightened white doves, looking back at her with sad eyes as they flew.

Rosy's good angel, however, was very patient with her that day. Again she was to be tried with kindness instead of harshness; surely this time it would succeed.

"Rosy dear," said her mother, quite brightly, for she had not noticed Rosy's cross looks at dinner, and she felt a natural pleasure in the thought of her child's pleasure, "Mr. Furnivale—or perhaps I should say Miss Furnivale—whom we all speak of as "Cecy," you know, has sent you such a pretty present. See, dear—you have never, I think, had anything so pretty," and she held up the lovely beads before Rosy's dazzled eyes.

"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed the little girl, her whole face lighting up, "O mamma, how very pretty! And they are for me. Oh, how very kind of Miss Furni—of Miss Cecy," she went on, turning to the old gentleman, "Will you please thank her for me very much?"

No one could look prettier or sweeter than Rosy at this moment, and Mr. Furnivale began to think he had been mistaken in thinking the little Vincent girl a much less lovable child than his old friend Beata Warwick.

"How very, very pretty," she repeated, touching the beads softly with her little fingers. And then with a sudden change she turned to her mother.

"Is there a necklace for Bee, too?" she said.

Mrs. Vincent's first feeling was of pleasure that Rosy should think of her little friend, but there was in the child's face a look that made her not sure that the question was quite out of kindness to Bee, and the mother's voice was a little grave and sad, as she answered.

"No, Rosy. There is not one for Bee. Mr. Furnivale brought it for you only."

Then Rosy's face was a curious study. There was a sort of pleasure in it—and this, I must truly say, was not pleasure that Bee had not a present also, for Rosy was not greedy or even selfish in the common way, but it was pleasure at being put first, and joined to this pleasure was a nice honest sorrow that Bee was left out. Now that Rosy was satisfied that she herself was properly treated she found time to think of Bee. And though the necklace had been six times as pretty, though it had been all pearls or diamonds, it would not have given Mrs. Vincent half the pleasure that this look of real unselfish sorrow in Rosy's face sent through her heart. More still, when the little girl, bending to her mother, whispered softly,

"Mamma, would it be right of me to give it to Bee? I wouldn't mind very much."

"No, darling, no; but I am very glad you thought of it. We will do something to make up for it to Bee." And she added aloud,

"Mr. Furnivale may perhaps be able to get one something like it for Bee, when he goes back to Italy."

"Then I may show it to her. It won't be unkind to show it her?" asked Rosy. And when her mother said "No, it would not be unkind," feeling sure, with her faith in Bee's goodness that Rosy's pleasure would be met with the heartiest sympathy—for "sympathy," dears, can be shown to those about us in their joys as well as in their sorrows—Rosy ran off in the highest spirits. Mr. Furnivale smiled as he saw her delight, and Mrs. Vincent was, oh so pleased to be able to tell him, that Rosy, of herself, had offered to give it to Bee, that that was what she had been whispering about.

"Not that Beata would have been willing to take it," she added, "she is the most unselfish child possible."



"And unselfishness is sometimes, catching, luckily for poor human nature," said the old gentleman, laughing. And Mrs. Vincent laughed too—the whole world seemed to have grown brighter to her since the little gleam she believed she had had of true gold at the bottom of Rosy's wayward little heart.

And Rosy ran gleefully off to her friend.

"Bee, Bee," she cried, "stop playing, do. I have something to show you. And you too, Fixie, you may come and see it if you like. See," as the two children ran up to her breathlessly, and she opened the box, "see," and she held up the lovely necklace, lovelier than ever as it glittered in the sunshine, every colour seeming to mix in with the others and yet to stand out separate in the most beautiful way. "Did you ever see anything so pretty, Bee?" Rosy repeated.

"Never," said Beata, with her whole heart in her voice.

"Nebber," echoed Fixie, his blue eyes opened twice as wide as usual.

"And is it yours, Rosy?" asked Bee.

"Yes mine, my very own. Mr. Furniture brought it me from—from somewhere. I don't remember the name of the place, but I know it's somewhere in the country that's the shape of a boot."

"Italy," said Bee, whose geography was not quite so hazy as Rosy's.

"Yes, I suppose it's Italy, but I don't care where it came from as long as I've got it. Oh, isn't it lovely? I may wear it for best. Won't it be pretty with a quite white frock? And, Bee, they said something, but perhaps I shouldn't tell."

"Don't tell it then," said Bee, whose whole attention was given to the necklace. "O Rosy, I am so glad you've got such a pretty thing. Don't you feel happy?" and she looked up with such pleasure in her eyes that Rosy's heart was touched.

"Bee," she said quickly, "I do think you're very good. Are you not the least bit vexed, Bee, that you haven't got it, or at least that you haven't got one like it?"

Beata looked up with real surprise.

"Vexed that I haven't got one too," she repeated, "of course not, Rosy dear. People can't always have everything the same. I never thought of such a thing. And besides it is a pleasure to me even though it's not my necklace. It will be nice to see you wearing it, and I know you'll let me look at it in my hand sometimes, won't you?" touching the beads gently as she spoke. "See, Fixie," she went on, "what lovely colours! Aren't they like fairy beads, Fixie?"

"Yes," said Fixie, "they is welly pitty. I could fancy I saw fairies looking out of some of them. I think if we was to listen welly kietly p'raps we'd hear fairy stories coming out of them."

"Rubbish, Fixie," said Rosy, rather sharply. She was too fond of calling other people's fancies "rubbish." Fixie's face grew red, and the corners of his mouth went down.

"Rosy's only in fun, Fixie," said Bee. "You shouldn't mind. We'll try some day and see if we can hear any stories—any way we could fancy them, couldn't we? Are you going to put on the beads now, Rosy? I think I can fasten the clasp, if you'll turn round. Yes, that's right. Now don't they look lovely? Shall we run back to the house to let your mother see it on? O Rosy, you can't think how pretty it looks."

Off ran the three children, and Mrs. Vincent, as she saw them coming, was pleased to see, as she expected, the brightness of Rosy's face reflected in Beata's.

"Mother," whispered Rosy, "I didn't say anything to Bee about her perhaps getting one too. It was better not, wasn't it? It would be nicer to be a surprise."

"Yes, I think it would. Any way it is better to say nothing about it just yet, as we are not at all sure of it, you know. Does Bee think the beads very pretty, Rosy?"

"Very," said Rosy, "but she isn't the least bit vexed for me to have them and not her. She's quite happy, mamma."

"She's a dear child," said Mrs. Vincent, "and so are you, my Rosy, when you let yourself be your best self. Rosy," she went on, "I have a sort of feeling that this pretty necklace will be a kind of talisman to you—perhaps it is silly of me to say it, but the idea came into my mind—I was so glad that you offered to give it up to Bee, and I am so glad for you really to see for yourself how sweet and unselfish Bee is about it. Do you know what a talisman is?"

"Yes, mamma," said Rosy, with great satisfaction. "Papa explained it to me one day when I read it in a book. It is a kind of charm, isn't it, mamma?—a kind of nice fairy charm. You mean that I should be so pleased with the necklace, mamma, that it should make me feel happy and good whenever I see it, and that I should remember, too, how nice Bee has been about it."

"Yes, dear," said her mother. "If it makes you feel like that, it will be a talisman."

And feeling remarkably pleased with herself and everybody else, Rosy ran off.

Mr. Furnivale left the next day, but not without promises of another visit before very long.

"When Cecy will come with you," said Mrs. Vincent.

"And give her my bestest love," said Fixie.

"Yes, indeed, my little man," said Mr. Furnivale, "and I'll tell her too that she would scarcely know you again—so fat and rosy!"

"And my love, please," said Beata, "I would so like to see her again."

"And mine," added Rosy. "And please tell her how dreadfully pleased I am with the beads."

And then the kind old gentleman drove away.

For some time after this it really seemed as if Rosy's mother's half fanciful idea was coming true. There was such a great improvement in Rosy—she seemed so much happier in herself, and to care so much more about making other people happy too.

"I really think the necklace is a talisman," said Mrs. Vincent, laughing, to Rosy's father one day.

Not that Rosy always wore it. It was kept for dress occasions, but to her great delight her mother let her take care of it herself, instead of putting it away with the gold chain and locket her aunt had given her on her last birthday, and the pearl ring her other godmother had sent her, which was much too large for her small fingers at present, and her ivory-bound prayer-book, and various other treasures to be enjoyed by her when she should be "a big girl." And many an hour the children amused themselves with the lovely beads, examining them till they knew every one separately. They even, I believe, had a name for each, and Fixie had a firm belief that inside each crystal ball a little fairy dwelt, and that every moonlight night all these fairies came out and danced about Rosy's room, though he never could manage to keep awake to see them.

Altogether, there was no end to the pretty fancies and amusement which the children got from "Mr. Furniture's present."



CHAPTER VIII.

HARD TO BEAR.

"Give unto me, made lowly-wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice." —ODE TO DUTY.

For some weeks things went on very happily. Of course there were little troubles among the children sometimes, but compared with a while ago the nursery was now a very comfortable and peaceful place.

Martha was quietly pleased, but she had too much sense to say much about it. Miss Pink was so delighted, that if Bee had not been a modest and sensible little girl, Miss Pink's over praise of her, as the cause of all this improvement, might have undone all the good. Not that Miss Pink was not ready to praise Rosy too, and in a way that would have done her no good either, if Rosy had cared enough for her to think much of her praise or her blame. But one word or look even from her mother was getting to be more to Rosy than all the good-natured little governess's chatter; a nice smile from Martha even, she felt to mean really more, and one of Beata's sweet, bright kisses would sometimes find its way straight to Rosy's queerly hidden-away heart.

"You see, Rosy, it does get easier," Bee ventured to say one day. She looked up a little anxiously to see how Rosy would take it, for since the night she had found Rosy sobbing in bed they had never again talked together quite so openly. Indeed, Rosy was not a person whose confidence was easy to gain. But she was honest—that was the best of her.

She looked up quickly when Bee spoke.

"Yes," she said, "I think it's getting easier. But you see, Bee, there have only been nice things lately. If anything was to come to vex me very much, I daresay it would be just like it used to be again. There's not even been Colin to tease me for a long time!"

Rosy's way of talking of herself puzzled Bee, though she couldn't quite explain it. It was right, she knew, for Rosy not to feel too sure of herself, but still she went too far that way. She almost talked as if she had nothing to do with her own faults, that they must come or not come like rainy days.

"What are you thinking, Bee?" she said, as Bee did not answer at once.

"I can't tell you quite how I mean, for I don't know it myself," said Bee. "Only I think you are a little wrong. You should try to say, 'If things come to vex me, I'll try not to be vexed.'"

Rosy shook her head.

"No," she said, "I can't say that, for I don't think I should want to try," and Beata felt she could not say any more, only she very much hoped that things to vex Rosy would not come!

The first thing at all out of the common that did come was, or was going to be, perhaps I should say, a very nice thing. A note came one day to Rosy's mother to say that a lady, a friend of hers living a few miles off, wanted to see her, to talk over a plan she had in her head for a birthday treat to her two little daughters. These two children were twins; they were a little younger than Rosy, and she did not know them very well, as they lived some way off; but Mrs. Vincent had often wished they could meet oftener, as they were very nice and good children.

And when Lady Esther had been, and had had her talk with Rosy's mother, she looked in at the schoolroom a moment in passing, and kissed the little girls, smiling, and seeming very pleased, for she was so kind that nothing pleased her so much as to give pleasure to others.

"Your mother will tell you what we have been settling," she said, nodding her head and looking very mysterious.

And that afternoon Mrs. Vincent told the children all about it. Lady Esther was going to have a fte for the twins' birthday—a garden-fte, for it was to be hoped by that time the weather could be counted upon, and all the children were to have fancy dresses! That was to be the best fun of it all. Not very grand or expensive dresses, and nothing which would make them uncomfortable, or prevent their running about freely. Lady Esther's idea was that the children should be dressed in sets, which would look very pretty when they came into the big hall to dance before leaving. Lady Esther had proposed that Rosy and Bee should be dressed as the pretty French queen, Marie Antoinette, whom no doubt you have heard of, and her sister-in-law the good princess, Madame Elizabeth. Fixie was to be the little prince, and Lady Esther's youngest little girl the young princess, while the twins were to be two maids of honour. But Rosy's mother had said she would like better for her little girls to be the maids of honour, and the twins to be the queen and princess, which seemed quite right, as the party was to be in their house. And so it was settled.

A few days later Lady Esther sent over sketches of the dresses she proposed to have, and the children were greatly pleased and interested.

"May I wear my beads, mamma?" asked Rosy.

Mrs. Vincent smiled.

"I daresay you can," she said, and Rosy clapped her hands with delight, and everything seemed as happy as possible.

"But remember," said Mrs. Vincent, "it is still quite a month off. Do not talk or think about it too much, or you will tire yourselves out in fancy before the real pleasure comes."

This was good advice. Bee tried to follow it by doing her lessons as usual, and giving the same attention to them. But Rosy, with some of her old self-will, would not leave off talking about the promised treat. She was tiresome and careless at her lessons, and Miss Pink was not firm enough to check her. Morning, noon, and night, Rosy went on about the fete, most of all about the dresses, till Bee sometimes wished the birthday treat had never been thought of, or at least that Rosy had never been told of it.

One morning when the children came down to see Mr. and Mrs. Vincent at their breakfast, which they often were allowed to do, though they still had their own breakfast earlier than the big people, in the nursery with Martha, Beata noticed that Rosy's mother looked grave and rather troubled. Bee took no notice of it, however, except that when she kissed her, she said softly,

"Are you not quite well, auntie?" for so Rosy's mother liked her to call her.

"Oh yes, dear, I am quite well," she answered, though rather wearily, and a few minutes after, when Mr. Vincent had gone out to speak to some of the servants, she called Rosy and Bee to come to her.

"Rosy and Bee," she said kindly but gravely, "do you remember my advising you not to talk or to think too much about Lady Esther's treat?"

"Yes," said Bee, and "Yes," said Rosy, though in a rather sulky tone of voice.

"Well, then, I should not have had to remind you both of my advice. I am really sorry to have to find fault about anything to do with the birthday party. I wanted it to have been nothing but pleasure to you. But Miss Pink has told me she does not know what to do with you—that you are so careless and inattentive, and constantly chattering about Lady Esther's plan, and that at last she felt she must tell me."

Bee felt her cheeks grow red. Mrs. Vincent thought she felt ashamed, but it was not shame. Poor Bee, she had never before felt as she did just now. It was not true—how could Miss Pink have said so of her? She knew it was not true, and the words, "I haven't been careless—I did do just what you said," were bursting out of her lips when she stopped. What good would it do to defend herself except to make Mrs. Vincent more vexed with Rosy, and to cause fresh bad feelings in Rosy's heart? Would it not be better to say nothing, to bear the blame, rather than lose the kind feelings that Rosy was getting to have to her? All these thoughts were running through her mind, making her feel rather puzzled and confused, for Bee did not always see things very quickly; she needed to think them over, when, to her surprise, Rosy looked up.

"It isn't true," she said, not very respectfully it must be owned, "it isn't true that Bee has been careless. If Miss Pink thinks telling stories about Bee will make me any better, she's very silly, and I shall just not care what she says about anything."

"Rosy," said Mrs. Vincent sternly, "you shall care what I say. Go to your room and stay there, and you, Beata, go to yours. I am surprised that you should encourage Rosy in her naughty contradiction, for it is nothing else that makes her speak so of what Miss Pink felt obliged to say of you."

Rosy turned away with the cool sullen manner that had not been seen for some time. Bee, choking with sobs—never, never, she said to herself, not even when her mother went away, had she felt so miserable, never had Aunt Lillias spoken to her like that before—poor Bee rushed off to her room, and shutting the door, threw herself on the floor and wondered what she should do!

Mrs. Vincent, if she had only known it, was nearly as unhappy as she. It was not often she allowed herself to feel worried and vexed, as she had felt that morning, but everything had seemed to go wrong—Miss Pink's complaints, which were not true, about Bee had really grieved her. For Miss Pink had managed to make it seem that it was mostly Bee's fault—-and she had said little things which had made Mrs. Vincent really unhappy about Bee being so very sweet and good before people, but not really so good when one saw more of her.

Mrs. Vincent would not let Miss Pink see that she minded what she said; she would hardly own it to herself. But for all that it had left a sting.

"Can I have been mistaken in Bee?" was the thought that kept coming into her mind. For Miss Pink had mixed up truth with untruths.

"Rosy," she had said, "whatever her faults, is so very honest," which her mother knew to be true, but Mrs. Vincent did not—for she was too honest herself to doubt other people—see that Miss Pink liked better to throw the blame on Bee, not out of ill-will to Bee, but because she was so very afraid that if there was any more trouble about Rosy, she would have to leave off being her governess.

Then this very morning too had brought a letter from Rosy's aunt, proposing a visit for the very next week, accompanied, of course, by the maid who had done Rosy so much harm! Poor Mrs. Vincent—it really was trying—and she did not even like to tell Rosy's father how much she dreaded his sister's visit. For Aunt Edith had meant and wished to be so truly kind to Rosy that it seemed ungrateful not to be glad to see her.

Rosy and Bee were left in their rooms till some time later than the usual school-hour, for Mrs. Vincent, wanting them to think over what she had said, told Miss Pink to give Fixie his lessons first, and then, before sending for the little girls to come down, she had a talk with Miss Pink.

"I have spoken to both Rosy and Bee very seriously, and told them of your complaints," she said.

Miss Pink grew rather red and looked uncomfortable.

"I should be sorry for them to think I complained out of any unkindness," she said.

"It is not unkindness. It is only telling the truth to answer me when I ask how they have been getting on," said Mrs. Vincent, rather coldly. "Besides I myself saw how very badly Rosy's exercises were written. I am very disappointed about Beata," she added, looking Miss Pink straight in the face, and it seemed to her that the little governess grew again red. "I can only hope they will both do better now."

Then Rosy and Bee were sent for. Rosy came in with a hard look on her face. Bee's eyes were swollen with crying, and she seemed as if she dared not look at her aunt, but she said nothing. Mrs. Vincent repeated to them what she had just said about hoping they would do better.

"I will do my best," said Beata tremblingly, for she felt as if another word would make her burst out crying again.

"Oh, I am sure they are both going to be very good little girls now," said Miss Pink, in her silly, fussy way, as if she was in a hurry to change the subject, which indeed she was.

Bee raised her poor red eyes, and looked at her quietly, and Mrs. Vincent saw the look. Rosy, who had not yet spoken, muttered something, but so low that nobody could quite hear it; only the words "stories" and "not true" were heard.

"Rosy," said her mother very severely, "be silent!" and soon after she left the room.

The schoolroom party was not a very cheerful one this morning, but things went on quietly. Miss Pink was plainly uncomfortable, and made several attempts to make friends, as it were, with Bee. Bee answered gently, but that was all, and as soon as lessons were over she went quietly upstairs.

Two days after, Miss Vincent arrived. Rosy was delighted to hear she was coming, and her pleasure in it seemed to make her forget about Bee's undeserved troubles. So poor Bee had to try to forget them herself. Her lessons were learnt and written without a fault—it was impossible for Miss Pink to find anything to blame; and indeed she did not wish to do so, or to be unkind, to Beata, so long as things went smoothly with Rosy. And for these two days everything was very smooth. Rosy did not want to be in disgrace when her aunt came, and she, too, did her best, so that the morning of the day when Miss Vincent was expected, Miss Pink told the children, with a most amiable face, that she would be able to give a very good report of them to Rosy's mother.

Bee said nothing. Rosy, turning round, saw the strange, half-sad look on Bee's face, and it came back into her mind how unhappy her little friend had been, and how little she had deserved to be so. And in her heart, too, Rosy knew that in reality it was owing to her that Beata had suffered, and a sudden feeling of sorrow rushed over her, and, to Miss Pink's and Bee's astonishment, she burst out,

"You may say what you like of me to mamma, Miss Pink. It is true I have done my lessons well for two days, and it is true I did them badly before. But if you can't tell the truth about Bee, it would be much better for you to say nothing at all."

Miss Pink grew pinker than usual, and she was opening her lips to speak, when Beata interrupted her.

"Don't say anything, Miss Pink," she said. "It's no good. I have said nothing, and—and I'll try to forget—you know what. I don't want there to be any more trouble. It doesn't matter for me. O Rosy dear," she went on entreatingly, "don't say anything more that might make more trouble, and vex your mamma with you, just as your aunt's coming. Oh, don't."

She put her arms round Rosy as if she would have held her back, Rosy only looking half convinced. But in her heart Rosy was very anxious not to be in any trouble when her aunt came. She didn't quite explain to herself why. Some of the reasons were good, and some were not very good. One of the best was, I think, that she didn't want her mother to be more vexed, or to have the fresh vexation of her aunt seeming to think—as she very likely would, if there was any excuse for it—that Rosy was less good under her mother's care than she had been in Miss Vincent's.

Rosy was learning truly to love, and what, for her nature, was almost of more consequence, really to trust her mother, and a feeling of loyalty—if you know what that beautiful word means, dear children,—I hope you do—was beginning for the first time to grow in her cross-grained, suspicious little heart. Then, again, for her own sake, Rosy wished all to be smooth when her aunt and Nelson arrived, which was not a bad feeling, if not a very good or unselfish one. And then, again, she did not want to have any trouble connected with Bee. She knew her Aunt Edith had not liked the idea of Bee coming, and that if she fancied the little stranger was the cause of any worry to her darling she would try to get her sent away. And Rosy did not now at all want Bee to be sent away!

These different feelings were all making themselves heard rather confusedly in her heart, and she hardly knew what to answer to Bee's appeal, when Miss Pink came to the rescue.

"Bee is right, Rosy," she said, her rather dolly-looking face flushing again. "It is much better to leave things. You may trust me to—to speak very kindly of—of you both. And if I was—at all mistaken in what I said of you the other day, Bee—perhaps you had been trying more than I—than I gave you credit for—I'm very sorry. If I can say anything to put it right, I will. But it is very difficult to—to tell things quite correctly sometimes. I had been worried and vexed, and then Mrs. Vincent rather startled me by asking me about you, Rosy, and by something she said about my not managing you well. And—oh, I don't know what we would do, my mother and I, if I lost this nice situation!" she burst out suddenly, forgetting everything else in her distress. "And poor mamma has been so ill lately, I've often scarcely slept all night. I daresay I've been cross sometimes"—and Miss Pink finished up by bursting into tears. Her distress gave the finishing touch to Bee's determination to bear the undeserved blame.

"No, poor Miss Pink," she said, running round to the little governess's side of the table, "I don't think you are cross. I shouldn't mind if you were a little sometimes. And I know we are often troublesome—aren't we, Rosy?" Rosy gave a little grunt, which was a good deal for her, and showed that her feelings, too, were touched. "But just then I had been trying. Aunt Lillias had spoken to us about it, and I did want to please her"—and the unbidden tears rose to Bee's eyes. "Please, Miss Pink, don't think I don't know when I am to blame, but—but you won't speak that way of me another time when I've not been to blame." A sort of smothered sob here came from Miss Pink, as a match to Rosy's grunt. "And please," Bee went on, "don't say anything more about that time to Aunt Lillias. It's done now, and it would only make fresh trouble."

That it would make trouble for her, Miss Pink felt convinced, and she was not very difficult to persuade to take Bee's advice.

"It would indeed bring me trouble," she thought, as she walked home more slowly than usual that the fresh air might take away the redness from her eyes before her mother saw her. "I know Mrs. Vincent would never forgive me if she thought I had exaggerated or misrepresented. I'm sure I didn't want to blame Bee; but I was so startled; and Mrs. Vincent seemed to think so much less of it when I let her suppose they had both been careless and tiresome. But it has been a lesson to me. And Beata is very good. I could never say a word against her again."

Miss Vincent arrived, and with her, of course, her maid Nelson. Everything went off most pleasantly the first evening. Aunt Edith seemed delighted to see Rosy again, and that was only kind and natural. And she said to every one how well Rosy was looking, and how much she was grown, and said, too, how nice it was for her to have a companion of her own age. She had been so pleased to hear about little Miss Warwick from Cecy Furnivale, whom she had seen lately.

Bee stared rather at this. She hardly knew herself under the name of little Miss Warwick; but she answered Miss Vincent's questions in her usual simple way, and told Rosy, when they went up to bed, that she did not wonder she loved her aunt—she seemed so very kind.

"Yes," said Rosy. Then she sat still for a minute or two, as if she was thinking over something very deeply. "I don't think I'd like to go back to live with auntie," she said at last.

"To leave your mother! No, of course you wouldn't," exclaimed Bee, as if there could be no doubt about the matter.

"But I did think once I would," said Rosy, nodding her head—"I did."

"I don't believe you really did," said Bee calmly. "Perhaps you thought you did when you were vexed about something."

"Well, I don't see much difference between wanting a thing, and thinking you want it," said Rosy.

This was one of the speeches which Bee did not find it very easy to answer all at once, so she told Rosy she would think it over in her dreams, for she was very sleepy, and she was sure Aunt Lillias would be vexed if they didn't go to bed quickly.



CHAPTER IX.

THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR.

"And the former called the latter 'little Prig.'"—EMERSON.

"And how well that sweet child is looking, Nelson," said Miss Vincent that evening to her maid as she was brushing her hair.

"I am glad you think so, ma'am," replied Nelson, in a rather queer tone of voice.

"Why, what do you mean?" said Miss Vincent. "Do you not think so? To be sure it was by candlelight, and I am very near-sighted, but I don't think any one could say that she looks ill. She is both taller and stouter."

"Perhaps so, ma'am. I wasn't thinking so much of her healthfulness. With the care that was taken of her, she couldn't but be a fine child. But it's her feelin's, ma'am, that seems to be so changed. All her spirits, her lovely high spirits, gone! Why, this evening, that Martha—or whatever they call her—a' upsetting thing I call her—spoke to her that short about having left the nursery door open because Master Fixie chose to fancy he was cold, that I wonder any young lady would take it. And Miss Rosy, bless her, up she got and shut it as meek as meek, and 'I'm very sorry, Martha—I forgot,' she said. I couldn't believe my ears. I could have cried to see her so kept down like. And she's so quiet and so grave."

"She is certainly quieter than she used to be," said Miss Vincent, "but surely she can't be unhappy. She would have told me—and I thought it was so nice for her to have that little companion."

"Umph," said Nelson. She had a way of her own of saying "umph" that it is impossible to describe. Then in a minute or two she went on again. "Well, ma'am, you know I'm one as must speak my mind. And the truth is I don't like that Miss Bee, as they call her, at all. She's far too good, by way of being too good, I mean, for a child. Give me Miss Rosy's tempers and fidgets—I'd rather have them than those smooth-faced ways. And she's come round Miss Rosy somehow. Why, ma'am, you'd hardly believe it, she'd hardly a word for me when she first saw me. It was 'Good-evening, Nelson. How do you do?' as cool like as could be. And it was all that Miss Bee's doing. I saw Miss Rosy look round at her like to see what she thought of it."

"Well, well, Nelson," said Miss Vincent, quite vexed and put out, "I don't see what is to be done. We can't take the child away from her own parents. All the same, I'm very glad to have come to see for myself, and if I find out anything not nice about that child, I shall stand upon no ceremony, I assure you," and with this Nelson had to be content.

It was true that Rosy had met Nelson very coldly. As I have told you before, Rosy was by no means clever at pretending, and a very good thing it is not to be so. She had come to take a dislike to Nelson, and to wonder how she could ever have been so under her. Especially now that she was learning to love and trust Beata, she did not like to let her know how many wrong and jealous ideas Nelson had put in her head, and so before Beata she was very cold to the maid. But in this Rosy was wrong. Nelson had taught her much that had done her harm, but still she had been, or had meant to be, very good and kind to Rosy, and Rosy owed her for this real gratitude. It was a pity, too, for Bee's sake that Rosy had been so cold and stiff to Nelson, for on Bee, Nelson laid all the blame of it, and the harm did not stop here, as you will see.

Miss Vincent never got up early, and the next morning passed as usual. But she sent for Rosy to come to her room while she was dressing, after the morning lessons were over, which prevented the two little girls having their usual hour's play in the garden, and Beata wandered about rather sadly, feeling as if Rosy was being taken away from her. At luncheon Rosy came in holding her aunt's hand and looking very pleased.

"You don't know what lovely things auntie's been giving me," she said to Bee as she passed her. "And Nelson's making me such a beautiful apron—the newest fashion."

Nelson had managed to get into Rosy's favour again—that was clear. Beata did not think this to herself. She was too simple and kind-hearted to think anything except that it was natural for Rosy to be glad to see her old nurse again, though Bee had a feeling somehow that she didn't much care for Nelson and that Nelson didn't care for her!

"By-the-bye, Rosy," said Mrs. Vincent, in the middle of luncheon, "did you show your aunt your Venetian beads?"

"Yes," said Miss Vincent, answering for Rosy, "she did, and great beauties they are."

"Nelson didn't think so—at least not at first," said Rosy, rather spitefully. She had always had a good deal of spite at Nelson, even long ago, when Nelson had had so much power of her. "Nelson said they were glass trash, till auntie explained to her."

"She didn't understand what they were," said Miss Vincent, seeming a little annoyed. "She thinks them beautiful now."

"Yes now, because she knows they must have cost a lot of money," persisted Rosy. "Nelson never thinks anything pretty that doesn't cost a lot."

These remarks were not pleasant to Miss Vincent. She knew that Mrs. Vincent thought Nelson too free in her way of speaking, and she did not like any of her rather impertinent sayings to be told over.

"Certainly," she thought to herself, "I think it is quite a mistake that Rosy is too much kept down," but just as she was thinking this, Rosy's mother looked up and said to her quietly, "Rosy, I don't think you should talk so much. And you, Bee, are almost too silent!" she added, smiling at Beata, for she had a feeling that since Miss Vincent's arrival Bee looked rather lonely.

"Yes," said Rosy's aunt, "we don't hear your voice at all, Miss Beata. You're not like my chatter-box Rosy, who always must say out what she thinks."

The words sounded like a joke—there was nothing in them to vex Bee, but something in the tone in which they were said made the little girl grow red and hot.

"I—I was listening to all of you," she said quietly. She was anxious to say something, not to seem to Mrs. Vincent as if she was cross or vexed.

"Yes," said Rosy's mother. "Rosy and her aunt have a great deal to say to each other after being so long without meeting," and Miss Vincent looked pleased at this, as Rosy's mother meant her to be.

"By-the-bye," continued Mrs. Vincent, "has Rosy told you all about the fte there is going to be at Summerlands?" Summerlands was the name of Lady Esther's house.

"Oh yes," said Miss Vincent, "and very charming it will be, no doubt, only I should have liked my pet to be the queen, as she tells me was at first proposed."

This was what Mrs. Vincent thought one of Aunt Edith's silly speeches, and Rosy could not help wishing when she heard it that she had not told her aunt that her being the queen had been thought of at all. She looked a little uncomfortable, and her mother, glancing at her, understood her feelings and felt sorry for her.

"I think it is better as it is," she said. "Would you like to hear about the dresses Rosy and Bee are to wear?" she went on. "I think they will be very pretty. Lady Esther has ordered them in London with her own little girls'." And then she told Miss Vincent all about the dresses, so that Rosy's uncomfortable feeling went away, and she felt grateful to her mother.

After luncheon the little girls went out together in the garden.

"I'm so glad to be together again," said Bee, "it seems to me as if I had hardly seen you to-day, Rosy."

"What nonsense!" said Rosy. "Why, I was only in auntie's room for about a quarter of an hour after Miss Pink went."

"A quarter of an hour," said Bee. "No indeed, Rosy. You were more than an hour, I am sure. I was reading to Fixie in the nursery, for he's got a cold and he mayn't go out, and you don't know what a great lot I read. And oh, Rosy, Fixie wants so to know if he may have your beads this afternoon, just to hold in his hand and look at. He can't hurt them."

"Very well," said Rosy. "He may have them for half an hour or so, but not longer."

"Shall I go and give them to him now?" said Bee, ready to run off.

"Oh no, he won't need them just yet. Let's have a run first. Let's see which of us will get to the middle bush first—you go right and I'll go left."

This race round the lawn was a favourite one with the children. They were playing merrily, laughing and calling to each other, when a messenger was seen coming to them from the house. It was Samuel the footman.

"Miss Rosy," he said as he came within hearing, "you must please to come in at onst. Miss Vincent is going a drive and you are to go with her."

"Oh!" exclaimed Rosy, "I don't think I want to go."

"I think you must," said Bee, though she could not help sighing a little.

"Miss Vincent is going to Summerlands," said Samuel.

"Oh, then I do want to go," said Rosy. "Never mind, Bee—I wish you were going too. But I'll tell you all I hear about the party when I come' back. But I'm sorry you're not going."

She kissed Bee as she ran off. This was a good deal more than Rosy would have done some weeks ago, and Bee, feeling this, tried to be content. But the garden seemed dull and lonely after Rosy had gone, and once or twice the tears would come into Bee's eyes.

"After all," she said to herself, "those little girls are much the happiest who can always live with their own mammas and have sisters and brothers of their own, and then there can't be strange aunts who are not their aunts." But then she thought to herself how much better it was for her than for many little girls whose mothers had to be away and who were sent to school, where they had no such kind friend as Mrs. Vincent.

"I'll go in and read to Fixie," she then decided, and she made her way to the house.

Passing along the passage by the door of Rosy's room, it came into her mind that she might as well get the beads for Fixie which Rosy had given leave for. She went in—the room was rather in confusion, for Rosy had been dressing in a hurry for her drive—but Bee knew where the beads were kept, and, opening the drawer, she found them easily. She was going away with them in her hand when a sharp voice startled her. It was Nelson. Bee had not noticed that she was in a corner of the room hanging up some of Rosy's things, for, much to Martha's vexation, Nelson was very fond of coming into Rosy's room and helping her to dress.

"What are you doing in Miss Rosy's drawers?" said Nelson; and Bee, from surprise at her tone and manner, felt herself get red, and her voice trembled a little as she answered.

"I was getting something for Master Fixie—something for him to play with." And she held up the necklace.

Nelson looked at her still in a way that was not at all nice. "And who said you might?" she said next.

"Rosy—of course, Miss Rosy herself," said Bee, opening her eyes, "I would not take anything of hers without her leave."

Nelson gave a sort of grunt. But she had an ill-will at the pretty beads, because she had called them rubbish, not knowing what they were; so she said nothing more, and Bee went quietly away, not hearing the words Nelson muttered to herself, "Sly little thing. I don't like those quiet ways."

When Bee got to the nursery, she was very glad she had come. Fixie was sitting in a corner looking very desolate, for Martha was busy looking over the linen, as it was Saturday, and his head was "a'ting dedfully," he said. He brightened up when he saw Bee and what she had brought, and for more than an hour the two children sat perfectly happy and content examining the wonderful beads, and making up little fanciful stories about the fairies who were supposed to live in them. Then when Fixie seemed to have had enough of the beads, Bee and he took them back to Rosy's room and put them carefully away, and then returned to the nursery, where they set to work to make a house with the chairs and Fixie's little table. The nursery was not carpeted all over—that is to say, round the edge of the room the wood of the floor was left bare, for this made it more easy to lift the carpet often and shake it on the grass, which is a very good thing, especially in a nursery. The house was an old one, and so the wood floor was not very pretty; here and there it was rather uneven, and there were queer cracks in it.

"See, Bee," said Fixie, while they were making their house, "see what a funny place I've found in the f'oor," and he pointed to a small, dark, round hole. It was made by what is called a knot in the wood having dried up and dropped out long, long ago probably, for, as I told you, the house was very old.

"What is there down there, does you fink?" said Fixie, looking up at Bee and then down again at the mysterious hole. "Does it go down into the middle of the world, p'raps?"

Beata laughed.

"Oh no, Fixie, not so far as that, I am sure," she said. "At the most, it can't go farther than the ceiling of the room underneath."

Fixie looked puzzled, and Bee explained to him that there was a small space left behind the wood planking which make the floor of one room and the thinner boards which are the ceiling of an under room.



"The ceiling doesn't need to be so strong, you see," she said. "We don't walk and jump on the ceiling, but we do on the floor, so the ceiling boards would not be strong enough for the floor."

"Yes," said Fixie, "on'y the flies walks on the ceiling, and they's not very heavy, is they, Bee? But," he went on, "I would like to see down into this hole. If I had a long piece of 'ting I could fish down into it, couldn't I, Bee? You don't fink there's anything dedful down there, do you? Not fogs or 'nakes?"

"No," said Bee, "I'm sure there are no frogs or snakes. There might be some little mice."

"Is mice the same as mouses?" said Fixie; and when Bee nodded, "Why don't you say mouses then?" he asked, "it's a much samer word."

"But I didn't make the words," said Bee, "one has to use them the way that's counted right."

But Fixie seemed rather grumbly and cross.

"I like mouses," he persisted; and so, to change his ideas, Bee went on talking about the knot hole. "We might get a stick to-morrow," she said, "and poke it down to see how far it would go."

"Not a 'tick," said Fixie, "it would hurt the little mouses. I didn't say a 'tick—I said a piece of 'ting. I fink you'se welly unkind, Bee, to hurt the poor little mouses," and he grew so very doleful about it that Bee was quite glad when Martha called them to tea.

"I don't know what's the matter with Fixie," she said to Martha, in a low voice.

"He's not very well," said Martha, looking at her little boy anxiously. But tea seemed to do Fixie good, and he grew brighter again, so that Martha began to think there could not be much wrong.

Nursery tea was long over before Rosy came home, and so she stayed down in the drawing-room to have some with her mother and aunt. And even after that she did not come back to the other children, but went into her aunt's room to look over some things they had bought in the little town they had passed, coming home. She just put her head in at the nursery door, seeming in very high spirits, and called out to Bee that she would tell her how nice it had been at Summerlands.

But the evening went on. Fixie grew tired and cross, and Martha put him to bed; and it was not till nearly the big people's dinner-time that Rosy came back to the nursery, swinging her hat on her arm, and looking rather untidy and tired too. "I think I'll go to bed," she said. "It makes me feel funny in my head, driving so far."

"Let me put away your hat, Miss Rosy," said Martha, "it's getting all crushed and it's your best one."

"Oh, bother," said Rosy, and the tone was like the Rosy of some months ago. "What does it matter? You won't have to pay for a new one."

Martha said nothing, but quietly put away the hat, which had fallen on the floor. Bee, too, said nothing, but her heart was full. She had been alone, except for poor little Fixie, all the afternoon; and the last hour or so she had been patiently waiting for Rosy to come to the nursery to tell her, as she had promised, all her adventures.

"I'm going to bed," repeated Rosy.

"Won't you stay and talk a little?" said Bee; "you said you would tell me about Summerlands."

"I'm too tired," said Rosy. Then suddenly she added, sharply, "What were you doing in my drawers this afternoon?"

"In your drawers?" repeated Bee, half stupidly, as it were. She was not, as I have told you, very quick in catching up a meaning; she was thoughtful and clear-headed but rather slow, and when any one spoke sharply it made her still slower. "In your drawers, Rosy?" she said again, for, for a moment, she forgot about having fetched the necklace.

"Yes," said Rosy, "you were in my drawers, for Nelson told me. She said I wasn't to tell you she'd told me, but I told her I would. I don't like mean ways. But I'd just like to know what you were doing among my things."

It all came back to Bee now.

"I only went to fetch the beads for Fixie," she said, her voice trembling. "You said I might."

"And did you put them back again? And did you not touch anything else?" Rosy went on.

"Of course I put them back, and—of course I didn't touch anything else," exclaimed Bee. "Rosy, how can you, how dare you speak to me like that? As if I would steal your things. You have no right to speak that way, and Nelson is a bad, horrible woman. I will tell your mother all about it to-morrow morning."

And bursting into tears, Beata ran out of the nursery to take refuge in her own room. Nor would she come out or speak to Rosy when she knocked at the door and begged her to do so. But she let Martha in to help her to undress, and listened gently to the good nurse's advice not to take Miss Rosy's unkindness to heart.

"She's sorry for it already," said Martha. "And, though perhaps I shouldn't say it, you can see for yourself, Miss Bee dear, that it's not herself, as one may say." And Martha gave a sigh. "I'm sorry for Miss Rosy's mamma," she added, as she bid Bee good-night. And the words went home to Bee's loving, grateful little heart. It was very seldom, very seldom indeed, that unkind or ungentle thoughts or feelings rested there. Never hardly in all her life had Beata given way to anger as she had done that afternoon.



CHAPTER X.

STINGS FOR BEE.

"And I will look up the chimney, And into the cupboard to make quite sure." —AUTHOR OF LILLIPUT LEVEE.

Fixie was not quite well the next morning, as Martha had hoped he would be. Still he did not seem ill enough to stay in bed, so she dressed him as usual. But at breakfast he rested his head on his hand, looking very doleful, "very sorry for himself," as Scotch people say. And Martha, though she tried to cheer him up, was evidently anxious.

Mother came up to see him after breakfast, and she looked less uneasy than Martha.

"It's only a cold, I fancy," she said, but when Martha followed her out of the room and reminded her of all the children's illnesses Fixie had not had, and which often look like a cold at the beginning, she agreed that it might be better to send for the doctor.

"Have you any commissions for Blackthorpe?" she said to Miss Vincent when she, Aunt Edith, came down to the drawing-room, a little earlier than usual that morning. "I am going to send to ask the doctor to come and see Fixie."

Aunt Edith had already heard from Nelson about Felix not being well, and that was why she had got up earlier, for she was in a great fright.

"I am thankful to hear it," she said; "for there is no saying what his illness may be going to be. But, Lillias, of course you won't let darling Rosy stay in the nursery."

"I hadn't thought about it," said Rosy's mother. "Perhaps I am a little careless about these things, for you see all the years I was in India I had only Fixie, and he was quite out of the way of infection. Besides, Rosy has had measles and scarlet fever, and——"

"But not whooping-cough, or chicken-pox, or mumps, or even smallpox. Who knows but what it may be smallpox," said Aunt Edith, working herself up more and more.

Mrs. Vincent could hardly help smiling. "I don't think that's likely," she said. "However, I am glad you mentioned the risk, for I think there is much more danger for Bee than for Rosy, for Bee, like Fixie, has had none of these illnesses. I will go up to the nursery and speak to Martha about it at once," and she turned towards the door.

"But you will separate Rosy too," insisted Miss Vincent, "the dear child can sleep in my room. Nelson will be only too delighted to have her again."

"Thank you," said Rosy's mother rather coldly. She knew Nelson would be only too glad to have the charge of Rosy, and to put into her head again a great many foolish thoughts and fancies which she had hoped Rosy was beginning to forget. "It will not be necessary to settle so much till we hear what the doctor says. Of course I would not leave Rosy with Fixie and Bee by herself. But for to-day they can stay in the schoolroom, and I will ask Miss Pinkerton to remain later."

The doctor came in the afternoon, but he was not able to say much. It would take, he said, a day or two to decide what was the matter with the little fellow. But Fixie was put to bed, and Rosy and Bee were told on no account to go into either of the nurseries. Fixie was not sorry to go to bed; he had been so dull all the morning, playing by himself in a comer of the nursery, but he cried a little when he was told that Bee must not come and sit by him and read or tell him stories as she always was ready to do when he was not quite well. And Bee looked ready to cry too when she saw his distress!

It was not a very cheerful time. The children felt unsettled by being kept out of their usual rooms and ways. Rosy was constantly running off to her aunt's room, or to ask Nelson about something or other, and Bee did not like to follow her, for she had an uncomfortable feeling that neither Nelson nor her mistress liked her to come. Nelson was in a very gloomy humour.

"It will be a sad pity to be sure," she said to Rosy, "if Master Fixie's gone and got any sort of catching illness."

"How do you mean?" said Rosy. "It won't much matter except that Bee and I can't go into the nursery or my room. Bee's room has a door out into the other passage, I heard mamma saying we could sleep there if the nursery door was kept locked. I think it would be fun to sleep in Bee's room. I shouldn't mind."

Nelson grunted. She did not approve of Rosy's liking Beata.

"Ah, well," she said, "it isn't only your Aunt Edith that's afraid of infection. If it's measles that Master Fixie's got, you won't go to Lady Esther's party, Miss Rosy."

Rosy opened her eyes. "Not go to the party! we must go," she exclaimed, and before Nelson knew what she was about, off Rosy had rushed to confide this new trouble to Bee, and hear what she would say about it. Bee, too, looked grave, for her heart was greatly set on the idea of the Summerlands fete.

"I don't know," she replied. "I hope dear little Fixie is not going to be very ill. Any way, Rosy, I don't think Nelson should have said that. Your mother would have told us herself if she had wanted us to know it."

"Indeed," said a harsh voice behind her, "I don't require a little chit like you, Miss Bee, to teach me my duty," and turning round, Beata saw that Nelson was standing in the doorway, for she had followed Rosy, a little afraid of the effect of what she had told her. Bee felt sorry that Nelson had overheard what she had said, though indeed there was no harm in it.

"I did not mean to vex you, Nelson," she said, "but I'm sure it is better to wait till Aunt Lillias tells us herself."

Nelson looked very angry, and walked off in a huff, muttering something the children could not catch.

"I wish you wouldn't always quarrel with Nelson," said Rosy crossly. "She always gets on with me quite well. I shall have to go and get her into a good humour again, for I want her to finish my apron."

Rosy ran off, but Bee stayed alone, her eyes filled with tears.

"It isn't my fault," she said to herself. "I don't know what to do. Nothing is the same since they came. I'll write to mother and ask her not to leave me here any longer. I'd rather be at school or anywhere than stay here when they're all so unkind to me now."

But then wiser thoughts came into her mind. They weren't "all" unkind, and she knew that Mrs. Vincent herself had troubles to bear. Besides—what was it her mother had always said to her?—that it was at such times that one's real wish to be good was tried; when all is smooth and pleasant and every one kind and loving, what is easier than to be kind and pleasant in return? It is when others are not kind, but sharp and suspicious and selfish, that one has to "try" to return good for evil, gentleness for harshness, kind thoughts and ways for the cold looks or angry words which one cannot help feeling sadly, but which lose half their sting when not treasured up and exaggerated by dwelling upon them.

And feeling happier again, Bee went back to what she was busy at—making a little toy scrap-book for Fixie which she meant to send in to him the next morning as if it had come by post. And she had need of her good resolutions, for she hardly saw Rosy again all day, and when they were going to bed Nelson came to help Rosy to undress and went on talking to her so much all the time about people and places Bee knew nothing about, that it was impossible for her to join in at all. She kissed Rosy as kindly as usual when Nelson had left the room, but it seemed to her that her kiss was very coldly returned.

"You're not vexed with me for anything, are you, Rosy?" she could not help saying.

"Vexed with you? No, I never said I was vexed with you," Rosy answered. "I wish you wouldn't go on like that, Bee, it's tiresome. I can't be always kissing and petting you."

And that was all the comfort poor Bee could get to go to sleep with!

For a day or two still the doctor could not say what was wrong with Fixie, but at last he decided that it was only a sort of feverish attack brought on by his having somehow or other caught cold, for there had been some damp and rainy weather, even though spring was now fast turning into summer.

The little fellow had been rather weak and out of sorts for some time, and as soon as he was better, Mrs. Vincent made up her mind to send him off with Martha for a fortnight to a sheltered seaside village not far from their home. Beata was very sorry to see them go. She almost wished she was going with them, for though she had done her best to be patient and cheerful, nothing was the same as before the coming of Rosy's aunt. Rosy scarcely seemed to care to play with her at all. Her whole time, when not at her lessons, was spent in her aunt's room, generally with Nelson, who was never tired of amusing her and giving in to all her fancies. Bee grew silent and shy. She was losing her bright happy manner, and looked as if she no longer felt sure that she was a welcome little guest. Mrs. Vincent saw the change in her, but did not quite understand it, and felt almost inclined to be vexed with her.

"She knows it is only for a short time that Rosy's aunt is here. She might make the best of it," thought Mrs. Vincent. For she did not know fully how lonely Bee's life now was, and how many cold or unkind words she had to bear from Rosy, not to speak of Nelson's sharp and almost rude manner; for, though Rosy was not cunning, Nelson was so, and she managed to make it seem always as if Bee, and not Rosy, was in fault.

"Where is Bee?" said Mrs. Vincent one afternoon when she went into the nursery, where, at this time of day, Nelson was now generally to be found.

"I don't know, mamma," said Rosy. Then, without saying any more about Bee, she went on eagerly, "Do look, mamma, at the lovely opera-cloak Nelson has made for my doll? It isn't quite ready—there's a little white fluff——"

"Swansdown, Miss Rosy, darling," said Nelson.

"Well, swansdown then—it doesn't matter—mamma knows," said Rosy sharply, "there's white stuff to go round the neck. Won't it be lovely, mother?"

She looked up with her pretty face all flushed with pleasure, for nobody could be prettier than Rosy when she was pleased.

"Yes dear, very pretty," said her mother. It was impossible to deny that Nelson was very kind and patient, and Mrs. Vincent would have felt really pleased if only she had not feared that Nelson did Rosy harm by her spoiling and flattery. "But where can Bee be?" she said again. "Does she not care about dolls too?"

"She used to," said Rosy. "But Bee is very fond of being alone now, mamma. And I don't care for her when she looks so gloomy."

"But what makes her so?" said Mrs. Vincent. "Are you quite kind to her, Rosy?"

"Oh indeed, yes, ma'am," interrupted Nelson, without giving Rosy time to answer. "Of that you may be very sure. Indeed many's the time I say to myself Miss Rosy's patience is quite wonderful. Such a free, outspoken young lady as she is, and Miss Bee so different. I don't like them secrety sort of children, and Miss Rosy feels it too—she—"

"Nelson, I didn't ask for your opinion of little Miss Warwick," said Mrs. Vincent, very coldly. "I know you are very kind to Rosy. But I cannot have any interference when I find fault with her."

Nelson looked very indignant, but Mrs. Vincent's manner had something in it which prevented her answering in any rude way.

"I'm sure I meant no offence," she said sourly, but that was all.

Beata was alone in the schoolroom, writing, or trying to write, to her mother. Her letters, which used to be such a pleasure, had grown difficult.

"Mamma said I was to write everything to her," she said to herself, "but I can't write to tell her I'm not happy. I wonder if it's any way my fault."

Just then the door opened and Mrs. Vincent looked in.

"All alone, Bee," she said. "Would it not be more cheerful in the nursery with Rosy? You have no lessons to do now?

"No" said Bee, "I was beginning a letter to mamma. But it isn't to go just yet."

"Well, dear, go and play with Rosy. I don't like to see you moping alone. You must be my bright little Bee—you wouldn't like any one to think you are not happy with us?"

"Oh no," said Bee. But there was little brightness in her tone, and Mrs. Vincent felt half provoked with her.

"She has not really anything to complain of,"

she said to herself, "and she cannot expect me to speak to her against Aunt Edith and Nelson. She should make the best of it for the time."

As Bee was leaving the schoolroom Mrs. Vincent called her back.

"Will you tell Rosy to bring me her Venetian necklace to the drawing-room?" she said; "I want it for a few minutes." She did not tell Beata why she wanted it. It was because she had had a letter that morning from Mr. Furnivale asking her to tell him how many beads there were on Rosy's necklace and their size, as he had found a shop where there were two or three for sale, and he wanted to get one as nearly as possible the same for Beata.

Beata went slowly to the nursery. She would much rather have stayed in the schoolroom, lonely and dull though it was. When she got to the nursery she gave Rosy her mother's message, and asked her kindly if she might bring her dolls so that they could play with them together.

"I shan't get no work done," said Nelson crossly, "if there's going to be such a litter about."

"I'm going to take my necklace to mamma," said Rosy. "You may play with my doll till I come back, Bee."

She ran off, and Bee sat down quietly as far away from Nelson as she could. Five or ten minutes passed, and then the door suddenly opened and Rosy burst in with a very red face.

"Bee, Nelson," she exclaimed, "my necklace is gone. It is indeed. I've hunted everywhere. And somebody must have taken it, for I always put it in the same place, in its own little box. You know I do—don't I, Bee?"

Bee seemed hardly able to answer. Her face looked quite pale with distress.

"Your necklace gone, Rosy," she repeated. Nelson said nothing.

"Yes, gone, I tell you," said Rosy. "And I believe it's stolen. It couldn't go of itself, and I never left it about. I haven't had it on for a good while. You know that time I slept in your room, Bee, while Fixie was ill, I got out of the way of wearing it. But I always knew where it was, in its own little box in the far-back corner of the drawer where I keep my best ribbons and jewelry."

"Yes," said Bee, "I know. It was there the day I had it out to amuse Fixie."

Rosy turned sharply upon her.

"Did you put it back that day, Bee?" she said, "I don't believe I've looked at it since. Answer, did you put it back?"

"Yes," said Bee earnestly, "yes, indeed; indeed I did. O Rosy, don't get like that," she entreated, clasping her hands, for Rosy's face was growing redder and redder, and her eyes were flashing. "O Rosy, don't get into a temper with me about it. I did, did put it back."

But it is doubtful if Rosy would have listened to her. She was fast working herself up to believe that Bee had lost the necklace the day she had had it out for Pixie, and she was so distressed at the loss that she was quite ready to get into a temper with somebody —when, to both the children's surprise, Nelson's voice interrupted what Rosy was going to say.

"Miss Warwick," she said, with rather a mocking tone—she had made a point of calling Bee "Miss Warwick" since the day Mrs. Vincent had spoken of the little girl by that name—"Miss Warwick did put it back that day, Miss Rosy dear," she said. "For I saw it late that evening when I was putting your things away to help Martha as Master Fixie was ill." She did not explain that she had made a point of looking for the necklace in hopes of finding Bee had not put it back, for you may remember she had been cross and rude to Bee about finding her in Rosy's room.

"Well, then, where has it gone? Come with me, Bee, and look for it," said Rosy, rather softening down,—"though I'm sure I've looked everywhere."

"I don't think it's any use your taking Miss Warwick to look for it," said Nelson, getting up and laying aside her work. "I'll go with you, Miss Rosy, and if it's in your room I'll undertake to find it. And just you stay quietly here, Miss Bee. Too many cooks spoil the broth."

So Bee was left alone again, alone, and even more unhappy than before, for she was very sorry about Rosy's necklace, and besides, she had a miserable feeling that if it was never found she would somehow be blamed for its loss. A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour, what could Rosy and Nelson be doing all this time? The door opened and Bee sprang up.

"Have you found it, Rosy?" she cried eagerly.

But it was not Rosy, though she was following behind. The first person that came in was Mrs. Vincent. She looked grave and troubled.

"Beata," she said, "you have heard about Rosy's necklace. Tell me all about the last time you saw it."

"It was when Rosy let Fixie have it to play with," began Bee, and she told all she remembered.

"And you are sure—quite sure—you never have seen it since?"

"Quite sure," said Bee. "I never touch Rosy's things without her leave."

Nelson gave a sort of cough. Bee turned round on her. "If you've anything to say you'd better say it now, before Mrs. Vincent," said Bee, in a tone that, coming from the gentle kindly little girl, surprised every one.

"Bee!" exclaimed Mrs. Vincent, "What do you mean? Nelson has said nothing about you." This was quite true. Nelson was too clever to say anything right out. She had only hinted and looked wise about the necklace to Rosy, giving her a feeling that Bee was more likely to have touched it than any one else.

Bee was going to speak, but Rosy's mother stopped her. "You have told us all you know," she said. "I don't want to hear any more. But I am surprised at you, Bee, for losing your temper about being simply asked if you had seen the necklace. You might have forgotten at first if you had had it again for Fixie, and you might the second time have forgotten to put it back. But there is nothing to be offended at, in being asked about it."

She spoke coldly, and Bee's heart swelled more and more, but she dared not speak.

"There is nothing to do," said Mrs. Vincent, "that I can see, except to find out if Fixie could have taken it. I will write to Martha at once and tell her to ask him, and to let us know by return of post."