"Nelson, I didn't ask for your opinion of little Miss Warwick," said Mrs. Vincent, very coldly. "I know you are very kind to Rosy. But I cannot have any interference when I find fault with her."
Nelson looked very indignant, but Mrs. Vincent's manner had something in it which prevented her answering in any rude way.
"I'm sure I meant no offence," she said sourly, but that was all.
Beata was alone in the schoolroom, writing, or trying to write, to her mother. Her letters, which used to be such a pleasure, had grown difficult.
"Mamma said I was to write everything to her," she said to herself, "but I can't write to tell her I'm not happy. I wonder if it's any way my fault."
Just then the door opened and Mrs. Vincent looked in.
"All alone, Bee," she said. "Would it not be more cheerful in the nursery with Rosy? You have no lessons to do now?
"No" said Bee, "I was beginning a letter to mamma. But it isn't to go just yet."
"Well, dear, go and play with Rosy. I don't like to see you moping alone. You must be my bright little Bee—you wouldn't like any one to think you are not happy with us?"
"Oh no," said Bee. But there was little brightness in her tone, and Mrs. Vincent felt half provoked with her.