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

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

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

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

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