The caressing touch, the tender manner, the earnest, pleading voice were too much for Gracie, and, throwing herself down on a chair, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed bitterly.
Bessie let her cry for a moment, for the wise little woman knew that tears often do one good for a while, and contented herself with giving soft touches to Gracie's hair and neck to let her know she was still beside her and ready to give her her sympathy.
At last Gracie raised her head and said brokenly, "Oh, Bessie, I am so bad! I am so wicked!"
"I don't think being rather—rather—well, rather cross, is so very wicked," said Bessie, hesitating to give a hard name to Gracie's ill-temper, "and if you are sorry now and will come downstairs, we'll all be very glad to see you."
"Oh, it isn't that," sobbed Gracie. "Bessie, if you knew what I've done, you'd hate me. I know you would."
"No, I wouldn't," said Bessie. "I'd never hate you, Gracie. I'd only be sorry for you and try to help you."
"You can't help me. No one can help me," said Gracie, in a fresh paroxysm of distress.
"Can't your mamma? Mammas generally can," said Bessie.
"No, not even mamma," answered Gracie. "Oh, Bessie, I do feel as if it would be a kind of relief to tell you; but you'd hate me, you couldn't help it; and so would every one else."