“I s’pose she looked out of the window and saw you push me, and I s’pose she saw that I was mis’able.”
“Cry-baby!” taunted Charlie scornfully.
“I am not a cry-baby,” said Rose, with a quaver in her voice. “It took all the skin off my knee—look!—and it hurts awfully when I bend it around, so. But I never told Aunt Mary, and she doesn’t know. I cried a little because—because you hurt my feelings; that was why.”
“Humph!” grunted Charlie, looking at the bruised, tender little knee. He tried to make light of it, but his cheeks reddened, and he felt ashamed. Rose was such a little thing, after all.
Rose writhed in her seat. “Must you stay in the chair all the time?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Yes,” said Charlie briefly.
“It is so hard! I thought—if we could stand up, or sit down on the floor—maybe—but anyway we might play something else, some kind of quiet game; Twenty Questions, or—or something. Would you like to do that, Charlie?” She twisted about in the chair and eyed the back of his head wistfully. Charlie hardened his heart.
“No,” he said crossly. “I don’t want to play anything in this horrid old dark room.”
“It isn’t quite so lonesome now that I am here, is it?” asked Rose anxiously. Charlie made no reply. “I thought you might be glad for company,” she went on. “I don’t mind being here—much. But it is nicer outside. There is Carlo—hear him bark! And there are the sunshine and the birds and flowers—and everything. Oh, it is lovely here in the country! I thought we would have such good times together, Charlie, as we used to do when you lived in the city, only here it is much nicer. You have so many lovely things to show me, Aunt Mary said. But now”— She stopped short as if afraid of hurting his feelings.
“How long have you got to stay here?” asked Charlie, wishing that she would go away.