the other little girl more than them."

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

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

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

Beata's eyes filled with tears.