"Rosy dear," said her mother, quite brightly, for she had not noticed Rosy's cross looks at dinner, and she felt a natural pleasure in the thought of her child's pleasure, "Mr. Furnivale—or perhaps I should say Miss Furnivale—whom we all speak of as "Cecy," you know, has sent you such a pretty present. See, dear—you have never, I think, had anything so pretty," and she held up the lovely beads before Rosy's dazzled eyes.
"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed the little girl, her whole face lighting up, "O mamma, how very pretty! And they are for me. Oh, how very kind of Miss Furni—of Miss Cecy," she went on, turning to the old gentleman, "Will you please thank her for me very much?"
No one could look prettier or sweeter than Rosy at this moment, and Mr. Furnivale began to think he had been mistaken in thinking the little Vincent girl a much less lovable child than his old friend Beata Warwick.
"How very, very pretty," she repeated, touching the beads softly with her little fingers. And then with a sudden change she turned to her mother.
"Is there a necklace for Bee, too?" she said.
Mrs. Vincent's first feeling was of pleasure that Rosy should think of her little friend, but there was in the child's face a look that made her not sure that the question was quite out of kindness to Bee, and the mother's voice was a little grave and sad, as she answered.
"No, Rosy. There is not one for Bee. Mr. Furnivale brought it for you only."
Then Rosy's face was a curious study. There was a sort of pleasure in it—and this, I must truly say, was not pleasure that Bee had not a present also, for Rosy was not greedy or even selfish in the common way, but it was pleasure at being put first, and joined to this pleasure was a nice honest sorrow that Bee was left out. Now that Rosy was satisfied that she herself was properly treated she found time to think of Bee. And though the necklace had been six times as pretty, though it had been all pearls or diamonds, it would not have given Mrs. Vincent half the pleasure that this look of real unselfish sorrow in Rosy's face sent through her heart. More still, when the little girl, bending to her mother, whispered softly,
"Mamma, would it be right of me to give it to Bee? I wouldn't mind very much."
"No, darling, no; but I am very glad you thought of it. We will do something to make up for it to Bee." And she added aloud,