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.