I did not speak—I began to cry quietly.
"And some one else has been in trouble too," she said; "you have made Emilia very unhappy."
I raised my head in surprise. "Emilia!" I repeated; "she doesn't care. She only laughed at me."
"She does care, Lois," said my aunt. "She has tried to tell you so several times."
"Yes," I said confusedly, "she did; but I didn't think anybody cared really."
"No, you have been thinking of no one but yourself, Lois; that is the truth, dear. But now listen to me, and don't think I am going to laugh at you. I understand how you have been feeling. Once, when I was a little girl, I was very nearly as miserable about the loss of a—guess now—what do you think?"
I looked up with interest.
"I don't know," I said; "was it a pet bird, or something like that?"
"No," replied Aunt Lois, "nothing half so sensible. I don't think you could guess. It was nothing but a little sugar mouse, which I had had for some weeks, till at last one day, forgetting that it was only sugar, I left it so close to the fire that it melted. But many times in my life I have thought of my poor mouse with gratitude, Lois. It taught me some good lessons. Can you guess what they were?"
"Not to care too much for things, I suppose," I said.