"Why, Belle," she said, cheerily, "I should think you'd be glad, 'cause now you can be a sunbeam to your cousin, and try to do her good."
"I guess I shan't be a sunbeam to her," said Belle. "I'd be nothing but an ugly, old black cloud, what blows a great deal and has thunder and lightning out of it; and it's just good enough for her."
And at that moment, indeed, little Belle looked much more like a thunder-cloud than like a sunbeam.
"I just can't bear her. I b'lieve I just hate her, and I'm going to do it too," she continued.
"But that is naughty," said Bessie.
"I don't care: it is truf," said Belle. "I can say the truf, can't I?"
"Well, yes," answered Bessie, "when it's the good truth; but if it's a naughty truth, it's better to keep it in."
"What did Mabel do to you to make you so mad?" asked Maggie.
"Why, she—she"—and Belle hesitated a little, rather ashamed of herself now, as she found how small cause of complaint she really had—"why, she took my things when I didn't say she might. She wanted my carved animals too, what Uncle Ruthven gave me; but papa didn't let her have them, and I wouldn't either. I put them away, and wouldn't let her look at them,—no, not one tiny little peek."