They were all very sorry for her. Maudie's tears and those of the little boys had flowed freely when the sad story was first told to them; they had all rushed to Hoodie to try to kiss and comfort her. But her extreme crossness, or what any way looked like it to them, sent them away puzzled and hurt. Hoodie's mother had proposed that the little girl should spend the whole day down-stairs with her, have dinner at the dining-room luncheon, and go a drive in the afternoon, but to all this Hoodie only replied by a determined shake of the head, as well as to her father's offer of a new bird, or two if she liked, the prettiest that could be bought. So they were all really at their wits' end. It was very sad, but one must also allow that it was very tiresome. Martin began to fear that the child would really make herself ill, and as was Martin's "way," her anxiety began to make her rather cross. "I wish Miss King had never put it into the child's head to have a pet bird," she muttered to herself as she was washing up the tea-things that evening, glancing at Hoodie's disconsolate figure still in the corner of the nursery. "Miss King may be all very well and kind, but she's no knowledge of children, how should she have any? I think it's much best to leave children to them that understands them; though indeed as for any one's understanding Miss Hoodie----!" Fortunately it did not occur to Hoodie to make any objection to going to bed, and it was a relief to every one to know of her being there and safely asleep, "forgetting her troubles for a while," as Martin said. The next day was very little better. Hoodie did not cry quite so much, but she still sat in a corner doing nothing, and when any one attempted to speak to her, however kindly, she turned upon them with fierceness, like a little ill-tempered cat. Yet it was not ill-temper; it was really misery, or at least it was ill-temper caused by misery. But as no gentleness and patience, no sympathy or attempt at comforting her did any good, but harm--and as any approach to reasoning with her, or scolding her, seemed to harden her already embittered little heart more and more, what was to be done, what could be done, but leave her alone? She continued determinedly to refuse, night and morning, to say her prayers, and refused, too, to say grace at the nursery table when it was her turn. But of all this Mrs. Caryll wisely desired Martin to take no notice, and not to try to force the child to any formal utterance of words in which her heart had no part. "It _must_ be all right again soon if only we are patient with her," said Hoodie's mother, more cheerfully than she was really feeling, for she saw that Martin was very much worried and distressed about Hoodie, and she was anxious to encourage her. "It is to be hoped so, ma'am, I'm sure," was Martin's rather hopeless reply.