"People say things to us," said Bessie.
"And do you not wish people to speak to you?"
"Oh, yes, papa, if they say nice things; but first, nurse called our shells and sea-weed, 'truck.'"
"Very poor taste in nurse," said Mr. Bradford; "but I would not fret about that. Is there anything more?"
"Yes, papa,"—Bessie hesitated,—"but I do not like to tell tales."
"But I want to know what the trouble is. I shall not think you are telling tales when I ask you."
"Harry called me 'mean,' and Fred said I was 'a miser,'" said Maggie, beginning to cry again. "And I wouldn't be such an ugly thing, now!"
"What is a miser, Maggie?" asked papa.
"An ugly old man, who makes believe he hasn't any money, when he has a whole lot in bags in a chest, and doesn't eat anything but crusts, with an ugly, thin cat who hunches up her back," said Maggie.