Rosy

"The highest not more

Than the height of a counsellor's bag."

-WORDSWORTH.

Rosy stood at the window. She drummed on the panes with her little fat fingers in a fidgety cross way; she pouted out her nice little mouth till it looked quite unlike itself; she frowned down with her eyebrows over her two bright eyes, making them seem like two small windows in a house with very overhanging roofs; and last of all, she stamped on the floor with first her right foot and then with her left. But it was all to no purpose, and this made Rosy still more vexed.

"Mamma," she said at last, for really it was too bad-wasn't it?-when she had given herself such a lot of trouble to show how vexed she was, that no one should take any notice. "Mamma" she repeated.

But still no one answered, and obliged at last to turn round, for her patience was at an end, Rosy saw that there was no one in the room. Mamma had gone away! That was a great shame-really a great shame. Rosy was offended, and she wanted mamma to see how offended she was, and mamma chose just that moment to leave the room. Rosy looked round-there was no good going on pouting and frowning and drumming and stamping to make mamma notice her if mamma wasn't there, and all that sort of going on caused Rosy a good deal of trouble. So she left off. But she wanted to quarrel with somebody. In fact, she felt that she must quarrel with somebody. She looked round again. The only "somebody" to be seen was mamma's big, big Persian cat, whose name was "Manchon" (why, Rosy did not know; she thought it a very stupid name), of whom, to tell the truth, Rosy was rather afraid. For Manchon could look very grand and terrible when he reared up his back, and swept about his magnificent tail; and though he had never been known to hurt anybody, and mamma said he was the gentlest of animals, Rosy felt sure that he could do all sorts of things to punish his enemies if he chose. And knowing in her heart that she did not like him, that she was indeed sometimes rather jealous of him, Rosy always had a feeling that she must not take liberties with him, as she could not help thinking he knew what she felt.

[Illustration: ROSY AND MANCHON]

No, Manchon would not do to quarrel with. She stood beside his cushion looking at him, but she did not venture to pull his tail or pinch his ears, as she would rather have liked to do. And Manchon looked up at her sleepily, blinking his eyes as much as to say, "What a silly little girl you are," in a way that made Rosy more angry still.

"I don't like you, you ugly old cat," she said, "and you know I don't. And I shan't like her. You needn't make faces at me," as Manchon, disturbed in his afternoon nap, blinked again and gave a sort of discontented mew. "I don't care for your faces, and I don't care what mamma says, and I don't care for all the peoples in the world, I won't like her;" and then, without considering that there was no one near to see or to hear except Manchon, Rosy stamped her little feet hard, and repeated in a louder voice, "No, I won't, I won't like her."

But some one had heard her after all. A little figure, smaller than Rosy even, was standing in the doorway, looking at her with a troubled face, but not seeming very surprised.

"Losy," it said, "tea's seady. Fix is comed for you."

"Then Fix may go away again. Rosy doesn't want any tea. Rosy's too bovvered and vexed. Go away, Fix."

But "Fix," as she called him, and as he called himself, didn't move. Only the trouble in his delicate little face grew greater.

"Is you bovvered, Losy?" he said. "Fix is welly solly," and he came farther into the room. "Losy," he said again, still more gently than before, "do come to tea. Fix doesn't like having his tea when Losy isn't there, and Fix is tired to-day."

Rosy looked at him a moment. Then a sudden change came over her. She stooped down and threw her arms round the little boy's neck and hugged him.

"Poor Fixie, dear Fixie," she said. "Rosy will come if you want her. Fixie never bovvers Rosy. Fixie loves Rosy, doesn't he?"

"Ses," said the child, kissing her in return, "but please don't skeese Fix kite so tight," and he wriggled a little to get out of her grasp. Instantly the frown came back to Rosy's changeable face.

"You cross little thing," she said, half flinging her little brother away from her, "you don't love Rosy. If you did, you wouldn't call her cuddling you skeesing."

Fix's face puckered up, and he looked as if he were going to cry. But just then steps were heard coming, and a boy's voice called out, "Fix, Fix, what a time you are! If Rosy isn't there, never mind her. Come along. There's something good for tea."

"There's Colin," said Fix, turning as if to run off to his brother. Again Rosy's mood changed.

"Don't run away from Rosy, Fix," she said. "Rosy's not cross, she's only troubled about somefing Fix is too little to understand. Take Rosy's hand, dear, and we'll go up to tea togever. Never mind Colin-he's such a big rough boy;" and when Colin, in his turn, appeared at the door, Rosy and Fix were already coming towards it, hand-in-hand, Rosy the picture of a model little elder sister.

Colin just glanced at them and ran off.

"Be quick," he said, "or I'll eat it all before you come. There's fluff for tea-strawberry fluff! At least I've been smelling it all the afternoon, and I saw a little pot going upstairs, and Martha said cook said it was for the children!"

Colin, however, was doomed to be disappointed.

There was no appearance of anything "better" than bread and butter on the nursery table, and in answer to the boy's questions, Martha said there was nothing else.

"But the little pot, Martha, the little pot," insisted Colin. "I heard you yourself say to cook, 'Then this is for the children?'"

"Well, yes, Master Colin, and so I did, and so it is for you. But I didn't say it was for to-day-it's for to-morrow, Sunday."

"Whoever heard of such a thing," said Colin. "Fluff won't keep. It should be eaten at once."

"But it's jam, Master Colin. It's regular jam in the little pot. I don't know anything about the fluff, as you call it. I suppose they've eaten it in the kitchen."

"Well, then, it's a shame," said Colin. "It's all the new cook. I've always been accustomed, always, to have the fluff sent up to the nursery," and he thumped impressively on the table.

"In all your places, Master Colin, it was always so, wasn't it?" said Martha, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes.

"You're very impettnent, Martha," said Rosy, looking up suddenly, and 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 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 and drowsy-it dropped lower and lower, and at last found a resting-place on Rosy's knees. Rosy, who had really been getting sleepy, half woke up when she felt the weight of her little brother's head and shoulder upon her-she moved him a little so that he should lie more comfortably, and put one arm round him.

"Dear Fixie," she said to herself, "I do love him, and I'm sure he loves me," and her face grew soft and gentle-and when Rosy's face looked like that it was very pretty and sweet. But it quickly grew dark and gloomy again as another thought struck her. "If Fixie loves that nasty little girl better than me or as much-if he loves her at all, I'll-I don't know what I'll do. I'd almost hate him, and I'm sure I'll hate her, any way. Mamma says she's such a dear good little girl-that means that everybody'll say I'm naughtier than ever."

But just then Fixie moved a little and whispered something in his sleep.

"What is it, Fix?" said Rosy, stooping down to listen. His ears caught the sound of her voice.

"Poor Losy," he murmured, and Rosy's face softened again.

And half an hour later Martha found them lying there together.