"
"You _are_ going?" said Bee, anxiously. In Rosy's changed way of
thinking she became suddenly afraid that she might not wish to go.
"Yes," said Rosy, rather gravely, "I am going. Mother is quite pleased
for me to go, to please you. In one way I would rather not go, for I
know I don't deserve it; and I can't help thinking you wouldn't have
been ill if I hadn't done that, and made you have a fright. And it
seems such a shame for me to wear _your_ dress, when you've been
quite good and _deserve_ the pleasure, and just when I've got to
see how kind you are, and we'd have been so happy to go together. And
then I've a feeling, Bee, that I _shall_ enjoy it when I get
there, and perhaps I shall forget a little about you, and it will be
so horrid of me, if I do--and that makes me, wish I wasn't going."
"But I want you to enjoy it," said Bee, simply, in her little weak
voice. "It wouldn't be nice of me to want you to go if I thought you
wouldn't enjoy it. And it's nice of you to tell me how you feel. But I
would like you to think of me _this_ way--every time you are
having a very nice dance, or that any one says you look so nice, just
think, "I wish Bee could see me," or "How nice it will be to tell Bee
about it," and, that way, the more you enjoy it the more you'll think
of me."
"Yes," said Rosy, "that's putting it a very nice way; or, Bee, if
there are very nice things to eat, I might think of you another way.
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