"I've been naughty again," said Bertha, simply.
"What about?" with more interest.
Bertha felt the difference in the tone.
"I can't get on with Aunt Esther—"
"I expect you're sometimes in fault yourself," hazarded Norman, looking up.
"Ye-es—oh, yes, I am; but she's so sharp! She's always after me: 'do this,' and 'do that.' Mother never used to keep on so!"
"Of course not," said Norman, briefly. He hoped Bertha was not going to cry about her mother, because he hated people to cry.
"And then when Father comes home, I know Aunt Esther tells him tales about me, and that makes me mad—"
"Perhaps you fancy she does, and after all she doesn't," said Norman.
Bertha shook her head. "I know it isn't nice of me to be always thinking such things about her; but, indeed, Norman, I can't help it, and I do feel so miserable."