Barry’s face softened. He was very much attached to that child. Ever since he had known her she had been sweet and gentle with him—first at Mrs. Tingsby’s, and now when he occasionally saw her with the Judge. Dear little Bethany—the only little girl he knew in Riverport that he cared much about, except poor Airy, and his face softened still further. What was Dallas worrying her about?
They seemed to be standing by one of the open parlor windows. “Bethany,” Dallas was saying, severely, “I have brought you in here to scold you. I think you are a selfish little girl.”
“I don’t feel selfish,” remarked Bethany, whimperingly.
“Well, you act so. I consider you the most selfish person in this household. Everyone in the family has got into the way of pleasing you from morning till night, and it is having a bad effect on you. I consider that you treated Airy very shabbily this afternoon.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Bethany, resentfully.
“That is just it—you didn’t do anything. Now, you know as well as I do that for weeks I have been teaching Airy, and that she has improved immensely—just immensely. She called this afternoon, and naturally I was anxious to show her off to the Judge. I took pains to have her meet you when you came from school, and what did you do?”
“You didn’t tell me what to do?” said Bethany, irritably.
“Didn’t tell you? Of course not. I hoped that your own kind heart would tell you. You saw that Airy was dying to play with you. Why didn’t you invite her to stay?”
Bethany burst out with an intense remark, “I don’t like Airy.”
“Neither do I, but is that an excuse? Suppose I stopped teaching her because I did not like her?”