"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