“Why don’t you say, ‘I told you so!’ then, and tell me that it’s my own fault?”
“I—don’t—know! Perhaps because I do so many foolish things myself; perhaps because I haven’t the heart to scold you just now, you poor dear.”
Rhoda’s face quivered, but she pressed her lips together, and said with a gulp:
“I suppose—it’s a childish trouble! I suppose—when I am old—and sensible—I shall look back on to-day, and laugh to think how I worried myself over such an unimportant trial.”
“I am sure you will do nothing of the kind. You will be very, very sorry for yourself, and very pitiful, and very proud, too, if you can remember that you bore it bravely and uncomplainingly.”
“But I can’t! I can’t bear it at all. It gets worse every moment. I keep remembering things that I had forgotten. Miss Bruce preaching, and Miss Mott staring through her spectacles—the girls all saying they are sorry, and the—the Record Wall, where I wanted to see my name! I can’t bear it, it’s no use.”
“But you will have to bear it, Rhoda. It is a fact, and nothing that you can do will alter it now. You will have to bear it; but you can bear it in two ways, as you make up your mind to-day. You can cry and fret, and make yourself ill, and everyone else miserable, or you can brace yourself up to bear it bravely, and make everyone love and admire you more than they have ever done before. Which are you going to do?”
“I am going to be cross and horrid. I couldn’t be good if I tried. I’m soured for life!” said Rhoda stoutly, but even as she spoke a smile struggled with her tears, and Evie laughed aloud—her sweet, ringing laugh.
“Poor, dear old thing! She looks so like it! I know better, and am not a bit afraid of you. You will be good and plucky, and rejoice unaffectedly in Kathleen’s success.”
“Has Kathleen—Oh! Is Kathleen first?”