"Why, my little girl," he said, "you didn't cry like this even when
you said good-bye at Southampton."

"That must be it," said Rosy's mother, who was too kind to feel vexed
for more than an instant; "the poor child has put too much force on
herself, and that always makes one break down afterwards. Come, dear
Beata, and remember how much your mother wanted you to be happy with
us."

She held out her hand, but to her surprise Beata still hung back,
clinging to her uncle.

"Oh, please," she whispered, "let me go back with you, uncle. I don't
care how dull it is--I shall not be any trouble to grandmother while
she is ill. Do let me go back--I cannot stay here."

Beata's uncle was kind, but he had not much experience of children.

"Beata," he said, and his voice was almost stern, "it is impossible.
All is arranged here for you. You will be sorry afterwards for giving
way so foolishly. You would not wish to seem _ungrateful_, my
little girl, for all your kind friends here are going to do for you?"

The word ungrateful had a magical effect. Beata raised her head from
his shoulder, and digging in her pocket for her little handkerchief,
wiped away the tears, and then looking up, her face still quivering,
said gently, "I won't cry any more, uncle; I _will_ be good.
Indeed, I didn't mean to be naughty."