Eva went home that night very much grieved. She had made many advances to Amy during the day, but they had all been repelled, and with so much coldness and rudeness that she did not know how to go any farther. She did not more than half believe what Dora had told her, and yet the words were not without their influence upon her mind.
"Amy must know she is wrong," she argued, "and that is what makes her so unwilling to make up. O dear! I don't know what to do! I believe I will tell mother all about it, and see what she says."
"How many times have you sighed during the last half hour, Eva?" asked Mrs. Morrison that evening, as she and Eva were sitting together knitting by the firelight.
The evenings were growing long and cool, and the open fire seemed very pleasant and cheerful.
"What is the matter?"
"I don't know, mamma—yes, I do know, too, I suppose!" answered Eva, rousing herself. "I did not know that I sighed, though."
"Has anything unpleasant happened in school?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
"Yes, mamma—that is, not exactly in school; but something very unpleasant has happened, and the worst of it is, I don't know what to do about it."
"Suppose you tell me the story," said Mrs. Morrison. "Perhaps I shall be able to advise you."
Eva sat down at her mother's feet on the rug, and told her the whole story as far as she knew it.