away. When, however, Mrs. Vincent, surprised at Beata's silence,
looked at her again, all the light had faded out of the little face,
and again she seemed on the point of tears.

"How strangely changeable she is," thought Mrs. Vincent, "I am sure
she used not to be so; she was merry and pleased just as she seemed a
moment or two ago."

"What is the matter, dear?" she said. "You look so distressed again.
Did it bring back your mother--what I said, I mean?"

"I think--I suppose so," Beata began, but there she stopped. "'So,"
she said bravely, "it wasn't that. But, please--I don't want to be
rude--but, please, would you not praise me--not for being tidy or
anything."

How gladly at that moment would she have said, "I'm not tidy. Mamma
always says I'm not," had it been true. But it was not--she was a very
neat and methodical child, dainty and trim in everything she had to do
with, as Rosy's mother remembered.

"What _shall_ I do?" she said to herself. "It seems as if only my
being naughty would make Rosy like me, and keep me from doing her
harm. What _can_ I do?" and a longing came over her to throw her
arms round Mrs. Vincent's neck, and tell her her troubles and ask her
to explain it all to her. But her faithfulness would not let her think
of such a thing. "That _would_ do Rosy harm," she remembered, "and
perhaps she meant to be kind when she spoke that way. It was kinder
than to have kept those feelings to me in her heart and never told me.
But I don't know what to do."