no use saying any more about it. It's just the way I'm made."

"But you do care, Rosy," said Bee, "I know you care. If you didn't you
wouldn't have been thinking about it, and been sorry after you were in
bed."

"Yes, I _did_ care," said Rosy, with again a little sob. "I had
been thinking it would be very nice, But I'm not going to care--that's
just the thing, Bee--that's what I wanted to tell you--I'm not going
to go on caring."

"Don't you always say your prayers, Rosy?" asked Bee, rather solemnly.

"Yes, _of course_ I do. But I don't think they're much good. I've
been just as naughty some days when I'd said them _beautifully_,
as some days when I'd been in a hurry."

Beata felt puzzled.

"I can't explain about it properly," she said. "But that isn't the
way, I don't think. Mother told me if I thought just saying my prayers
would make me good, it was like thinking they were a kind of magic,
and that isn't what we should think them."

"What good are they then?" said Rosy.

"Oh, I know what I mean, but it's very hard to say it," said poor Bee.
"Saying our prayers is like opening the gate into being good; it gives
us a sort of feeling that _He_, you know, Rosy, that God is
smiling at us all day, and makes us remember that He's _always_