happy at least, she would have said, "as I can be till mamma comes
home again," but Rosy seemed to throw a cloud over everybody. There
was never any knowing from one minute to another how she was going to
be. Only one thing became plainer to Bee. It was not only because
_she_ had come that Rosy was cross and unhappy. It was easy to
see that she was at all times very self-willed and queer-tempered,
and, though Bee was too good and kind to be glad of this, yet, as she
was a very sensible little girl, it made things look clearer to her.

"I will not begin fancying it is because I am in her place, or
anything like that," she said to herself. "I will be as good as I can
be, and perhaps she will get to like me," and Rosy was puzzled and
perhaps, in her strange contradiction, a little vexed at the brighter
look that came over Bee's face, and the cheery way in which she spoke.
For at the first, when she saw how much Bee had taken to heart what
she said, though her _best_ self felt sorry for the little
stranger, she had liked the feeling that she would be a sort of master
over her, and that the fear of seeming to take _her_ place would
prevent Bee from making friends with the others more than she, Rosy,
chose to allow.

Poor Rosy! She would have herself been shocked had she seen written
down in plain words all the feelings her jealous temper caused her.
But almost the worst of jealousy is that it hides itself in so many
dresses, and gives itself so many names, sometimes making itself seem
quite a right and proper feeling; often, very often making one think
oneself a poor, ill-treated martyr, when in reality, the martyrs are
the unfortunate people that have to live with the foolish person who
has allowed jealousy to become his master.