Rosy | Page 3

speaking for the first time since she had come into the room.
"Nonsense, Rosy," said Colin. "I don't mind. Martha was only joking."
Rosy relapsed into silence, to Martha's relief.
"If Miss Rosy is going to begin!" she had said to herself with fear and
trembling. She seldom or never ventured to joke with Rosy--few people
who knew her did--but Colin was the most good-natured of children.
She looked at Rosy rather curiously, taking care, however, that the little
girl should not notice it.
"There's something the matter with her," thought Martha, for Rosy
looked really buried in gloom; "perhaps her mamma's been telling her
what she told me this morning. I was sure Miss Rosy wouldn't like it,
and perhaps it's natural, so spoilt as she's been, having everything her
own way for so long. One would be sorry for her if she'd only let one,"
and her voice was kind and gentle as she asked the little girl if she
wouldn't like some more tea.
Rosy shook her head.

"I don't want nothing," she said.
"What's the matter, Rosy?" said Colin.
"Losy's bovvered," said Fixie.
Colin gave a whistle.
"Oh!" he said, meaningly, "I expect I know what it's all about. I know,
too, Rosy. You're afraid your nose is going to be put out of joint, I
expect."
"Master Colin, don't," said Martha, warningly, but it was too late. Rosy
dashed off her seat, and running round to Colin's side of the table,
doubled up her little fist, and hit her brother hard with all her baby
force, then, without waiting to see if she had hurt him or not, she
rushed from the room without speaking, made straight for her own little
bedroom, and, throwing herself down on the floor with her head on a
chair, burst into a storm of miserable, angry crying.
"I wish I was back with auntie--oh, I do, I do," she said, among her
sobs. "Mamma doesn't love me like Colin and Pixie. If she did, she
wouldn't go and bring a nasty, horrible little girl to live with us. I hate
her, and I shall always hate her--nasty little thing!"
The nursery was quiet after Rosy left it--quiet but sad.
"Dear, dear," said Martha, "if people would but think what they're
doing when they spoil children! Poor Miss Rosy, but she is naughty!
Has it hurt you, Master Colin?"
"No," said Colin, one of whose eyes nevertheless was crying from
Rosy's blow, "not much. But it's so _horrid_, going on like this."
"Of course it is, and why you can go on teasing your sister, knowing her
as you do, I can't conceive," said Martha. "If it was only for peace sake,
I'd let her alone, I would, if I was you, Master Colin."
Martha had rather a peevish and provoking way of finding fault or
giving advice. Just now her voice sounded almost as if she was going to
cry. But Colin was a sensible boy. He knew what she said was true, so
he swallowed down his vexation, and answered good-naturedly,
"Well, I'll try and not tease. But Rosy isn't like anybody else. She flies
into a rage for just nothing, and it's always those people somehow that
make one want to tease them. But, I say, Martha, I really do wonder
how we'll get on when--"
A warning glance stopped him, and he remembered that little Felix
knew nothing of what he was going to speak about, and that his mother

did not wish anything more said of it just yet. So Colin said no
more--he just whistled, as he always did if he was at a loss about
anything, but his whistle sometimes seemed to say a good deal.
How was it that Colin was so good-tempered and reasonable, Felix so
gentle and obedient, and Rosy, poor Rosy, so very different? For they
were her very own brothers, she was their very own sister. There must
have been some difference, I suppose, naturally. Rosy had always been
a fiery little person, but the great pity was that she had been sadly spoilt.
For some years she had been away from her father and mother, who
had been abroad in a warm climate, where delicate little Felix was born.
They had not dared to take Colin and Rosy with them, but Colin, who
was already six years old when they left England, had had the good
fortune to be sent to a very nice school, while Rosy had stayed
altogether with her aunt, who had loved her dearly, but in wishing to
make her perfectly happy had made the mistake of letting her have her
own way in everything. And when she was eight years old, and her
parents came home, full of delight to have their children all