“Ah, but, Tattine, there lies the beautiful difference. You can be reasoned with, and made to understand things, so that you can change your nature—I mean the part of you that makes you sometimes love to do naughty things.
“There’s another part of your nature that is dear and good and sweet, and doesn’t need to be changed at all. But Betsy and Doctor can only be trained in a few ways, and never to really change their nature.
“Setters have hunted rabbits always, kittens have preyed upon birds, and donkeys, as a rule, have stood still whenever they wanted to.”
“But why, I wonder, were they made so?”
“You nor I nor nobody knows, Tattine, but isn’t it fine that for some reason we are made differently? If we will only be reasonable and try hard enough and in the right way, we can overcome anything.”
“It’s a little like a sermon, Grandma Luty.”
“It’s a little bit of a one then, for it’s over, but you go this minute and give Betsy and Doctor a good hard hug, and tell them you forgive them.”
And Tattine did as she was bid, and Doctor and Betsy, who had sadly missed her petting, were wild with delight.
“But don’t even you yourselves wish,” she said, looking down at them ruefully, “that it was not your nature to kill dear little baby rabbits?”
And Tattine thought they looked as though they really were very sorry indeed.