Rosy | Page 8

ugly, which, I may tell you, children,
as Rosy won't hear what we say, was quite a mistake. Everybody is a
little pretty who is sweet and good, for though being sweet and good
doesn't alter the colour of one's hair or the shape of one's nose, it does a
great deal; it makes the cross lines smooth away, or, rather, prevents
their coming, and it certainly gives the eyes a look that nothing else
gives, does it not? But Rosy's face, alas! was very often spoilt by
frowns, and dark looks often took away the prettiness of her eyes, and

this was the more pity as the good fairies who had welcomed her at her
birth had evidently meant her to be pretty. She had very soft bright hair,
and a very white skin, and large brown eyes that looked lovely when
she let sweet thoughts and feelings shine through them; but though she
had many faults, she was not vain, and she really thought she was not
pleasant-looking at all.
"Beata is sure to be pretty," thought Rosy. "I daresay she'll have
beautiful black hair, and blue eyes like Lady Albertine." Albertine was
Rosy's best doll. "And I daresay she'll be very clever, and play the
piano and speak French far better than me. I don't mind that. I like
pretty people, and I don't mind people being clever. What I don't like is,
people who are dedfully good always going on about how good they
are, and how naughty other people is. If she doesn't do that way I shan't
mind so much, but I'm sure she will do that way. Yes, Manchon," she
said aloud, "I'm sure she will, and you needn't begin 'froo'in' about it."
For Rosy was in the drawing-room when all these thoughts were
passing through her mind--she was there with her afternoon frock on,
and a pretty muslin apron, all nice to meet Beata and her uncle, who
were expected very soon. And Manchon was on the rug as usual, quite
peacefully inclined, poor thing, only Rosy could never believe any
good of Manchon, and when he purred, or, as she called it, "froo'ed,"
she at once thought he was mocking her. She really seemed to fancy the
cat was a fairy or a wizard of some kind, for she often gave him the
credit of reading her very thoughts!
The door opened, and her mother came in, leading Fixie by the hand
and Colin just behind.
"Oh, you're ready, Rosy," she said. "That's right. They should be here
very soon."
"Welly soon," repeated Fixie. "Oh, Fixie will be so glad to see Beenie
again!"
"What a stupid name," said Rosy. "_We_'re not to call her that, are we,
mother?"
She spoke in rather a grand, grown-up tone, but her mother knew she
put that on sometimes when she was not really feeling unkind.
"I shall call her Bee," said Colin. "It would do very well, as we've"--he
stopped suddenly--"as we've got a wasp already," he had been going to
say--it seemed to come so naturally--when his mother's warning came

back to his mind. He caught her eye, and he saw that she couldn't help
smiling and he found it so difficult not to burst out laughing that he
stuffed his pocket-handkerchief into his mouth, and went to the
window, where he pretended to see something very interesting. Rosy
looked up suspiciously.
"What were you going to say, Colin?" she asked. "I'm sure--" but she
too stopped, for just then wheels were heard on the gravel drive
outside.
"Here they are," said mother. "Will you come to the door to welcome
Beata, Rosy?"
Rosy came forward, though rather slowly. Colin was already out in the
hall, and Fixie was dancing along beside his mother. Rosy kept behind.
The carriage, that had gone to the station to meet the travellers, was
already at the door, and the footman was handing out one or two
umbrellas, rugs, and so on. Then a gray-haired gentleman, whom Rosy,
peeping through a side window, did not waste her attention on--"He is
quite old," she said to herself--got out, and lifted down a much smaller
person--smaller than Rosy herself, and a good deal smaller than the
Beata of Rosy's fancies. The little person sprang forward, and was
going to kiss Rosy's mother, when she caught sight of the tiny white
face beside her.
"O Fixie, dear little Fixie!" she said, stooping to hug him, and then she
lifted her own face for Fixie's mother to kiss. At once, almost before
shaking hands with the gentleman, Rosy's mother looked round for her,
and Rosy had to come forward.
"Beata, dear, this is my Rosy," she said; and something in the tone of
the "my" touched Rosy. It seemed to say, "I