growl.

"It's Meg's ring, and I hate her!" she cried.

"For shame, Dorothy."

The child burst into a flood of tears and sobbed piteously, but it
was some minutes before he would relent and look towards her.
Eustace scolded her for making such a noise, and vexing Harold when
he was hurt, but that only made her cry the more. I told her to say
she was sorry, and perhaps Harold would forgive her; but she shook
her head violently at this.

Harold relented, unable to bear the sight of distress. "Don't tease
her," he said, shortly, to us both. "Hush, Dora; there's an end of
it."

This seemed to be an amnesty, for she leant against his knee again.

"Dora, how could you?" I said, when we were out of the carriage, and
the two young men had gone upstairs together.

"It was Meg's ring, and I hate her," answered Dora, with the fierce
wild gleam in her eyes.

"You should not hate anyone," was, of course, my answer.

"But she's dead!" said Dora, triumphantly as a little tigress.

"So much the worse it is to hate her. Who was she?"