"I do not think so. But let it be, Rotha, and never mention this subject to me again. Different people have different ways of looking at the same thing; and people are often very honestly mistaken. You must not judge others by yourself." "Mother, I think that was very unjust," said Rotha, in immediate disregard of this precept. "You must not think it was meant so." "But, mother, if a wrong thing is honestly meant, does that make it right?" "There is but one rule of right and wrong; it is God's rule." "Then what difference does it make, whether it was 'honestly meant' or no?" "A good deal, I should say. Don't you think it does?" "I do not believe aunt Serena means it honestly, though. If she was a good woman, she wouldn't keep what belongs to you. She must _know_ it is wrong!" "Rotha, you are paining me," said Mrs. Carpenter, the tears springing to her eyes. "This is very foolish talk, and very improper. Get your book." "I don't wonder you don't want to go and see her!" said Rotha indignantly as she obeyed the order. "O mother! if I could just once roll in the grass again!" At this moment came a cry from the street-- "Straw--berr_ees!_" "What's that?" exclaimed Rotha springing to the window. "Mother, it's a woman with a basket full of something red. Strawberries! it's strawberries!" The accent of this word went to the mother's heart. "It's early yet," she said. "They will be very dear. By and by they will be plenty and cheaper." "Strawberries!" repeated Rotha, following the woman with her eyes. "Mother, I think I do hate New York. The sight of those strawberries makes me wild. I want Carlo, and the ducks, and my old pussy cat, and the garden; and--Oh, I want father!" The natural conclusion to this burst was a passion of weeping. Mrs. Carpenter was fain to lay down her work, and put her arms round the child, and shed some tears with her; though even as they fell she was trying to soothe Rotha into patience and self-command. Two virtues of which as yet the girl knew nothing, except that her mother was a very lovely and constant exemplification of them. Nobody ever expected either from Rotha; although this was the first violent expression of grief and longing that her mother had seen since their removal to New York, and it took her by surprise. Rotha had seemed to acquiesce with tolerable ease in the new conditions of things; and this was Mrs. Carpenter's first notification that under all the outside calm there lay a power of wish and pain. They wept together for a while, the mother and child, which was a sort of relief to both of them. "Mother," said Rotha, as she dried her tears and struggled to prevent more coming,--"I could bear it, only that I don't see any end to it." "Well, my child? what then?" said the mother tenderly. "I don't feel as if I could bear this always." "There might be much worse, Rotha." "That don't make this one bit better, mother. It makes it harder."