she wanted not to seem to do so, thinking Rosy would then gradually
forget about it all.

"I don't want to send my love," said Rosy. "If you say I _must_,
I suppose I must, but I don't _want_ to send it."

"Do you think your love is not worth having, my poor little girl?"
said her mother, smiling a little sadly, as she drew Rosy to her.
"Don't you believe we all love you, Rosy, and want you to love us?"

"I don't know," said Rosy, gloomily. "I don't think anybody can love
me, for Martha's always saying if I do naughty things _you_ won't
love me and father won't love me, and nobody."

"Then why don't you leave off doing naughty things, Rosy?" said her
mother.

"Oh, I can't," Rosy replied, coolly. "I suppose I was spoilt at
auntie's, and now I'm too old to change. I don't care. It isn't my
fault: it's auntie's."

"Rosy," said her mother, gravely, "who ever said so to you? Where did
you ever hear such a thing?"

"Lots of times," Rosy replied. "Martha's said so, and Colin says so
when he's vexed with me. He's always said so," she added, as if she
didn't quite like owning it, but felt that she must. "He said I was
spoilt before you came home, but auntie wouldn't let him. _She_
thought I was quite good," and Rosy reared up her head as if she
thought so too.