Beata was alone in the schoolroom, writing, or trying to write, to her
mother. Her letters, which used to be such a pleasure, had grown
difficult.
"Mamma said I was to write everything to her," she said to herself,
"but I _can't_ write to tell her I'm not happy. I wonder if it's
any way my fault."
Just then the door opened and Mrs. Vincent looked in.
"All alone, Bee," she said. "Would it not be more cheerful in the
nursery with Rosy? You have no lessons to do now?
"No" said Bee, "I was beginning a letter to mamma. But it isn't to go
just yet."
"Well, dear, go and play with Rosy. I don't like to see you moping
alone. You must be my bright little Bee--you wouldn't like any one to
think you are not happy with us?"
"Oh no," said Bee. But there was little brightness in her tone, and
Mrs. Vincent felt half provoked with her.
"She has not really anything to complain of,"
she said to herself, "and she cannot expect me to speak to her against
Aunt Edith and Nelson. She should make the best of it for the time."
As Bee was leaving the schoolroom Mrs. Vincent called her back.
"Will you tell Rosy to bring me her Venetian necklace to the
drawing-room?" she said; "I want it for a few minutes." She did not
tell Beata why she wanted it. It was because she had had a letter that
morning from Mr. Furnivale asking her to tell him how many beads there
were on Rosy's necklace and their size, as he had found a shop where
there were two or three for sale, and he wanted to get one as nearly
as possible the same for Beata.
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