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