feeling relieved at having found a possible solution of the problem, she
closed the spelling book.

Mrs. Whittredge looked up in evident surprise when Rosalind entered the
room and announced, "I am sorry I left my book on the grass, grandmamma."

"What do you mean, my dear?" she asked.

"I thought you didn't like it because I was careless."

"I suppose it was careless, my pet, but I had not thought of it. But tell
me what makes you care so much for that book. It seems to me there are
many stories that would be more interesting to a little girl. Suppose you
put it away and let me find you something else."

The color deepened in Rosalind's face. "It is my own, own book," she
cried, clasping it to her heart.

"Very well, you need not be tragic about it," Mrs. Whittredge said coldly,
turning to her writing.

Again Rosalind knew she had offended, and this time her resentment was
aroused. "I don't like to be spoken to in that way," she told herself, as
she walked from the room.

Before she had reached the head of the stairs her grandmother's voice
called her hack. Reluctantly she returned.

Mrs. Whittredge had risen and now came to meet her and put her arm around
her, and her voice was soft and full of affection as she asked, "Do you