"Nothing, mama," answered Olive. "Only I came home early one day, when the girls didn't know it, and I heard them talking about me. They said how queer and odd I was, and how they felt hurt, because I always stayed away from them, and some more things, and mama, I was so amazed. I always thought they didn't want me, and I didn't know which way to believe and I,--I just asked God to help me; and I guess He did. It's terrible hard work, though I've only tried it a few days. I'm so ugly, and I've got such a dreadful temper, and always want to think the wrong way, but I notice that I really have been happier these few days; and mama, to-night, you--" Olive paused and looked up shyly, she did not often say such things and it cost something of a little effort to begin--"you looked so happy and I couldn't help but feel that it was because you were glad, and I really am going to try all the harder now." CHAPTER X. THE LITTLE BLACK TRUNK. When Spring came, spirits and strength began to flag. Everything without was so alluring, that indoors and duties grew dreadfully monotonous and tiresome. Bea found that her sweeping and dusting fell terribly behind, because she spent so much time sitting in the window-sills, and standing in the doors, where the sunshine was so temptingly clear and warm, and from where the yard and trees, so rapidly budding out, could be enjoyed. Olive dreaded her close dark counting-room, but said little about it, in the belief that complaining wouldn't help. Ernestine's four scholars lessened to two, and as the days grew warmer she spent much of the time on the lounge, looking listless, and betraying little interest in anything. Kittie and Kat, found that snatching moments from work, to take a race down the yard, or gather some particular cluster of fresh young blossoms, gave dish-water a chance to cool; or dust, left ready for taking up, to blow back to all corners of the room. Meals began to fall behind, but everybody was too warm and listless to eat much, or mind the tardiness. In short, everybody had the spring fever, but such ordinary complaint was not noticed, until, as the heat grew more debilitating, Bea said to her mother one evening, as they stood in the door, looking out into the soft still moonlight that lay so purely over the fresh early grass and blossoms:--"Mama, seems to me Ernestine is not well." Bea could not understand why her mother should start so, at such a slight intimation, or why her face should look so anxious as she turned it. "Why, dear?" "She lies down so much; it may be because the weather has turned warm so suddenly, but seems to me, she is so pale and quiet, and it is something so unusual, that I couldn't help but notice it; but then, may be, it's nothing after all."