"Yes, sometimes it is." Then Mrs. Vincent, in her turn, was silent for a minute, and at last she said,
"Would you very much rather I did not ask you why you cried?"
"Oh yes," cried Bee, "much, much rather."
"Very well then, but you will promise me that if the same thing makes you cry again, you will tell me?"
"Should I?" said Bee. "I thought—I thought it wasn't right to tell tales," she added so innocently that Mrs. Vincent could not help smiling to herself.
"It is not right," she said. "But what I ask you to promise is not to tell tales. It is to tell me what makes you unhappy, so that I may explain it or put it right. I could not do my duty among you and my other children unless I knew how things were. It is the spirit that makes tell-tales—the telling over for the sake of getting others blamed or punished—that is what is wrong."
"I see," said Beata slowly. "At least I think I see a little, and I'll try to think about it. I'll promise to tell you if anything makes me unhappy, really unhappy, but I don't think it will now. I think I understand better what things I needn't mind."
"Very well, dear. Then good-night," and Rosy's mother kissed Bee very kindly, though in her heart she felt sad. It was plain to her that Rosy had made Bee unhappy, and as she passed through Rosy's room she stopped a moment by the bed-side and looked at the sleeping child. Nothing could be prettier than Rosy asleep—her lovely fair hair made a sort of pale golden frame to her face, and her cheeks had a beautiful pink flush. But while her mother was watching her, a frown darkened her white forehead, and her lips parted sharply.
"I won't have her put before me. I tell you I won't," she called out angrily. Then again, a nicer look came over her face and she murmured some words which her mother only caught two or three of.
"I didn't mean"—"sorry"—"crying," she said, and her mother turned away a little comforted.