“Then you do love her best?”
“’Course,” said Ralph, “much best.”
Harriet pushed him away.
“Then I don’t want to sit with you,” she said, “nor talk to you. Go to Robina altogether. I—I suppose I am jealous; it is a horrid thing to be, but I suppose I am. You needn’t have stayed at home for me this morning. I don’t hate you; I was in a passion when I said I did; I love you very much but—I can’t stand a love like yours, the greater part of which is given to Robina.”
“Shall I tell you why I love her?” said Ralph. “’Cause she is strong and good and brave, and she teaches I lots of things; and she lets I look into her face; and she tells stories—wonderful stories!”
“Yes,” said Harriet. She was gazing intently at the child.
“Now you doesn’t,” said Ralph. “You did one day when I was with you, one day when you gave me picnic breakfast and we went to town and bought things for a picnic tea. But Robina does it every day; and I feel that she is strong, and—and—I can’t help it—I have to love her best.”
“I will tell you what I am,” said Harriet; “you had best know me for what I really am. I don’t like Robina just for the simple reason that she is stronger than me, and she can tell better stories, and she has got Bo-peep and I have not; and she is cleverer than me and has taken my place in the form. I was happy enough before she came to school, but I am not happy now.”
“I am so sorry,” said Ralph. “It seems an awfu’ pity, ’cause she can’t help being clever. My father’s clever: he can’t help it. Does you hate him ’cause of his big, big brains?”
“Oh, no, no—it’s quite different. You don’t understand what friendship means, Ralph.”