When the children came down that morning to see their mother, as they always did, a little after breakfast, Rosy's face wore a queer look.
"Good morning, little people," said their mother. "I was rather late this morning, do you know? That was why I didn't come to see you in the nursery. I am going to write to your aunt to-day. Would you like to put in a little letter, Rosy?"
"No, thank you," said Rosy.
"Then shall I just send your love? and Fixie's too?" said her mother. She went on speaking because she noticed the look in Rosy's face, but she wanted not to seem to do so, thinking Rosy would then gradually forget about it all.
"I don't want to send my love," said Rosy. "If you say I must, I suppose I must, but I don't want to send it."
"Do you think your love is not worth having, my poor little girl?" said her mother, smiling a little sadly, as she drew Rosy to her. "Don't you believe we all love you, Rosy, and want you to love us?"
"I don't know," said Rosy, gloomily. "I don't think anybody can love me, for Martha's always saying if I do naughty things you won't love me and father won't love me, and nobody."
"Then why don't you leave off doing naughty things, Rosy?" said her mother.
"Oh, I can't," Rosy replied, coolly. "I suppose I was spoilt at auntie's, and now I'm too old to change. I don't care. It isn't my fault: it's auntie's."
"Rosy," said her mother, gravely, "who ever said so to you? Where did you ever hear such a thing?"