"We had been at school about four months, when one Saturday I noticed that Bertie seemed more dull and languid than usual I did not wish to see this, but I could not shut my eyes to it. She would not go out to play with the other children, nor would she amuse herself in the house, but sat listlessly about, looking pale and miserable.
"'What ails you, Bertie?' I asked at last; 'are you sick?'
"'I want mother,' she answered, with a quivering lip and eyes filling up with tears.
"'Well, four months have gone by,' I said, speaking cheerfully, but carelessly.
"'Four months,' the child repeated sadly, 'and that leaves,'—she counted up on her fingers,—'that leaves eight more, Margy, before they come home. Oh, it is so long!'
"'If you love father and mother so much,' I said, 'I should think you would try to do what would please them.'
"'So I do,' said my little sister, with the great tears now rolling down her cheeks; 'mother told me to be good and mind you and my teachers, and I have. Mrs. Horton told me yesterday I was the best little girl in the school, and gave her no trouble, and that she would write and tell mother so.'
"'Oh yes!' I said; 'you are certainly a very good child; but you might improve more if you chose, Bertie.'
"'I don't want to improve,' said Bertie: 'people are not half so nice when they improve.'
"'You do not understand what you are talking about," said I, half-laughing, half-vexed; 'people must be nicer when they improve, because it means to become wiser and better.'