“Oh yes. Why everybody loves you, Winnie. You are so good and kind to every one.” “I’m afraid not,” answered Winnie gravely. “I used to think about pleasing people, but since I’ve been ill I’ve got very selfish; I did nothing for anybody, and did not try to be even kind or pleasant.” “You were ill,” answered Vi; “you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t come to see people. It was very naughty of me to be cross with you.” Another childish conscience was pricking its owner, bringing to mind sundry cross words and ungracious complaints which had fallen from her lips during the past months. Winifred saw at once that her neglect had pained her little friend. “I could have asked you to come to me,” she said quickly. “It was very naughty and selfish of me to think of nobody else. It makes me very sorry now, that I was so lazy and so unkind.” “Don’t, Winnie; you weren’t,” interrupted Violet. “And now you’re just as kind as you can be--everybody says so. What will they do----?” Violet stopped short, the tears in her eyes. Winifred knew what she meant, and answered it. “Mamma will miss me most,” she said. “Vi dear, I want you to do something for me. Will you come to see mamma as often as you can, and try to comfort her? She is fond of you, and she will like it. She hasn’t another little girl; but if you would come in and talk to her, and tell her things, and kiss her, and be fond of her, I am sure she would like it. She is fond of you, Vi.” “I will, Winnie. I love your mamma a whole lot. I should like to come and see her and tell her things. But oh, Winnie, I can’t bear to think about it--it seems so sad and dreadful.” “We won’t think about it, then, nor talk about it, if you don’t like. I haven’t talked to anybody else, Vi, and I don’t know--It is only what I fancy. I may--perhaps--be wrong.” Violet took courage from this idea, which she eagerly seized upon. Children soon turn their minds from a subject which seems sad or painful. “You have not told me your story yet, Winnie; and it is quite dark enough now.” “Yes, and almost time to go down to watch the boys’ charade; but I will just tell you what it was, as I promised, because I think perhaps it would be easier to be good if we could always remember that little things matter just as much as big ones, and are really often harder to think of, and to do.” Winifred paused a moment, whilst Violet settled herself to listen to the story. “It isn’t a very long one, and I can’t tell it nicely like mamma; but it was about a little boy whom she once knew quite well--a nice little boy whom everybody was fond of, because he was so good-tempered and merry. His name was Frank, and he lived in a nice little house with his mother, and they were very happy.