sometimes difficult to know?"

"Yes, sometimes it is." Then Mrs. Vincent, in her turn, was silent for
a minute, and at last she said,

"Would you very much rather I did not ask you why you cried?"

"Oh yes," cried Bee, "much, much rather."

"Very well then, but you will promise me that if the same thing makes
you cry again, you _will_ tell me?"

"_Should_ I?" said Bee. "I thought--I thought it wasn't right to
tell tales," she added so innocently that Mrs. Vincent could not help
smiling to herself.

"It is not right," she said. "But what I ask you to promise is not to
tell tales. It is to tell me what makes you unhappy, so that I may
explain it or put it right. I could not do my duty among you and my
other children unless I knew how things were. It is the _spirit/_
that makes tell-tales--the telling over for the sake of getting others
blamed or punished--_that_ is what is wrong."

"I see," said Beata slowly. "At least I think I see a little, and I'll
try to think about it. I'll promise to tell you if anything makes me
unhappy, _really_ unhappy, but I don't think it will now. I think
I understand better what things I needn't mind."

"Very well, dear. Then good-night," and Rosy's mother kissed Bee very
kindly, though in her heart she felt sad. It was plain to her that