“Oh, Charlie! And you are not sorry?” Rose pleaded.
“No, I am not sorry.”
“Not a little bit?”
“No, not one bit.”
Rose gave a little sigh and sank back in her chair. “Well, then I s’pose we must stay here and be hungry. For of course you mustn’t say it unless you are really and truly sorry—not even for the sake of supper. But oh! I know there is going to be jelly-roll. I saw Maggie making it this morning.”
Charlie kicked the chair hard. “Let’s try to think about something else,” went on Rose cheerfully; “then perhaps we shall forget to be hungry. Let’s talk about—about Carlo.”
“Oh, do keep still!” grumbled Charlie. “I don’t want to talk at all.” Rose was silent for some minutes. Then she began to speak again, half to herself.
“I think I will go home to-morrow, if I don’t starve before that. I will go to Kenneth, who will be so glad to see me, even if he is sick. Maybe I shall catch the fever and die. But that would be better than living where I have no little brother to love me. After I am gone, Charlie can come out, for of course Auntie will not ask him to tell me he is sorry if I am not here to listen. Then Carlo and the rabbits and Brindle and the calf will all be glad to see Charlie again, and no one will miss me, for I am only a silly little girl who spoils the beautiful country so that no one is happy here any more.” Here Rose gave a great sob. Charlie wriggled uncomfortably in his chair.
“I say, Rose, don’t talk like that. I don’t want you to go home. It wasn’t your fault. I was very bad to you,” he stammered.
“But it was my fault, too,” cried Rose eagerly. “I ought not to have said you were impolite and horrid. Even when you pushed me—”