Rosy had made Bee unhappy, and as she passed through Rosy's room she
stopped a moment by the bed-side and looked at the sleeping child.
Nothing could be prettier than Rosy asleep--her lovely fair hair made
a sort of pale golden frame to her face, and her cheeks had a
beautiful pink flush. But while her mother was watching her, a frown
darkened her white forehead, and her lips parted sharply.

"I won't have her put before me. I tell you I _won't_," she
called out angrily. Then again, a nicer look came over her face and
she murmured some words which her mother only caught two or three of.

"I didn't mean"--"sorry"--"crying," she said, and her mother turned
away a little comforted.

"O Rosy, poor Rosy," she said to herself. "You _do_ know what is
right and sweet. When will you learn to keep down that unhappy
temper?"

* * * * *

The next morning was bright and sunny, the garden with its beautiful
trees and flowers, which Beata had only had a glimpse of the night
before, looked perfectly delicious in the early light when she drew up
the window-blind to look out. And as soon as she was dressed she was
only too delighted to join Rosy and Colin for a run before breakfast.
Children are children all the world over--luckily for themselves and
luckily for other people too--and even children who are sometimes
ill-tempered and unkind are sometimes, too, bright and happy and
lovable. Rosy was after all only a child, and by no means
_always_ a disagreeable spoilt child. And this morning seeing Bee