For some years she had been away from her father and mother,
who had been abroad in a warm climate, where delicate little Felix was
born. They had not dared to take Colin and Rosy with them, but Colin,
who was already six years old when they left England, had had the good
fortune to be sent to a very nice school, while Rosy had stayed
altogether with her aunt, who had loved her dearly, but in wishing to
make her perfectly happy had made the mistake of letting her have her
own way in everything. And when she was eight years old, and her
parents came home, full of delight to have their children all together
again, the disappointment was great of finding Rosy so unlike what
they had hoped. And as months passed, and all her mother's care and
advice and gentle firmness seemed to have no effect, Rosy's true
friends began to ask themselves what should be done. The little girl
was growing a misery to herself, and a constant trouble to other
people. And then happened what her mother had told her about, and what
Rosy, in her selfishness and silliness, made a new trouble of, instead
of a pleasure the more, in what should have been her happy life. I
will soon tell you what it was.
Rosy lay on the floor crying for a good long while. Her fits of temper
tired her out, though she was a very strong little girl. There is
_nothing_ more tiring than bad temper, and it is such a stupid
kind of tiredness; nothing but a waste of time and strength.
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