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
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.
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