Rosy | Page 4

together
again, the disappointment was great of finding Rosy so unlike what
they had hoped. And as months passed, and all her mother's care and
advice and gentle firmness seemed to have no effect, Rosy's true
friends began to ask themselves what should be done. The little girl
was growing a misery to herself, and a constant trouble to other people.
And then happened what her mother had told her about, and what Rosy,
in her selfishness and silliness, made a new trouble of, instead of a
pleasure the more, in what should have been her happy life. I will soon
tell you what it was.
Rosy lay on the floor crying for a good long while. Her fits of temper
tired her out, though she was a very strong little girl. There is nothing
more tiring than bad temper, and it is such a stupid kind of tiredness;
nothing but a waste of time and strength. Not like the rather nice
tiredness one feels when one has been working hard either at one's own
business, or, still nicer, at helping other people--the sort of pleasant
fatigue with which one lays one's head on the pillow, feeling that all the
lessons are learnt, and well learnt, for to-morrow morning, or that the
bit of garden is quite, quite clear of weeds, and father or mother will be
so pleased to see it! But to fall half asleep on the floor, or on your bed,
with wearied, swollen eyes, and panting breath and aching head, feeling

or fancying that no one loves you--that the world is all wrong, and there
is nothing sweet or bright or pretty in it, no place for you, and no use in
being alive--all these miserable feelings that are the natural and the
right punishment of yielding to evil tempers, forgetting selfishly all the
pain and trouble you cause--what can be more wretched? Indeed, I
often think no punishment that can be given can be half so bad as the
punishment that comes of itself--that is joined to the sin by ties that can
never be undone. And the shame of it all! Rosy was not quite what she
had been when she first came home to her mother--she was beginning
to feel ashamed when she had yielded to her temper--and even this,
though a small improvement, was always something--one little step in
the right way, one little sign of better things.
She was not asleep--scarcely half asleep, only stupid and dazed with
crying--when the door opened softly, and some one peeped in. It was
Fixie. He came creeping in very quietly--when was Fixie anything but
quiet?--and with a very distressed look on his tiny, white face.
Something came over Rosy--a mixture of shame and sorrow, and also
some curiosity to see what her little brother would do; and these
feelings mixed together made her shut her eyes tighter and pretend to
be asleep.
Fixie came close up to her, peeped almost into her face, so that if she
had been really asleep I rather think it would have awakened her,
except that all he did was so very gentle and like a little mouse; and
then, quite satisfied that she was fast asleep, he slowly settled himself
down on the floor by her side.
"Poor Losy," he said softly. "Fixie are so solly for you. Poor Losy--why
can't her be good? Why doesn't God make Losy good all in a minute?
Fixie always akses God to make her good"--he stopped in his
whispered talk, suddenly--he had fancied for a moment that Rosy was
waking, and it was true that she had moved. She had given a sort of
wriggle, for, sweet and gentle as Fixie was, she did not at all like being
spoken of as not good. She didn't see why he need pray to God to make
her good, more than other people, she said to herself, and for half a
second she was inclined to jump up and tell Pix to go away; it wasn't
his business whether she was good or naughty, and she wouldn't have
him in her room. But she did not do so,--she lay still again, and she was
glad she had, for poor Fixie stopped in his talking to pat her softly.

"Don't wake, poor Losy," he said. "Go on sleeping, Losy, if you are so
tired, and Fix will watch aside you and take care of you."
He seemed to have forgotten all about her being naughty--he sat beside
her, patting her softly, and murmuring a sort of cooing "Hush, hush,
Losy," as if she were a baby, that was very touching, like the murmur
of a sad little dove. And by and by, with going on repeating it so often,
his own head began to feel confused