“Then you are like them! You think I ought to spend all my money on a great horrid pig, when Mamma—” and the tears were in the little girl’s eyes. “No, indeed, my dear. I don’t think anyone is called on to give their all, and it is very nice and quite right for a little girl to try to make a pretty present to please her mamma. There is plenty of time before you, and I think you will manage to have some share in the very kind action your brothers and sisters are contriving.” Elizabeth had not forgiven, as she should have done, the being called stingy; it rankled on her feelings far more than those who said the word understood; and she presently went on, “If they knew ever so much, they would only laugh at me, and call it all Bessie’s nonsense. Miss Fosbrook, please, what is affectation?” “I believe it is pretending to seem what we are not by nature,” said Miss Fosbrook; “putting on manners or feelings that do not come to us of themselves.” “Then I shall tell them they make me affected,” exclaimed she. “If I like to be quiet and do things prettily, they teaze me for being affected, and I’m forced to be as plain and blunt as their are, and I don’t like it! I wish I was grown up. I wish I was Ida Greville!” “And why, my dear?” “Because then things might be pretty,” said Elizabeth. “Everything is so plain and ugly, and one gets so tired of it! Is it silly to like things to be pretty?” “No, far from it; that is, if we do not sacrifice better things to prettiness.” Elizabeth looked up with a light in her dark eyes, and said, “Miss Fosbrook, I like you!” Miss Fosbrook was very much pleased, and kissed her. She paused a moment, and then said, “Miss Fosbrook, may I ask one question? What is your name? Mamma said it must be Charlotte, because you signed your letter Ch. A. Fosbrook, but your little sister’s letter that you showed us began ‘My dear Bell.’ If it is a secret, indeed I will keep it.” “It is no secret at all,” said Miss Fosbrook, laughing. “My name is Christabel Angela.” Elizabeth opened her eyes, and said it by syllables. “Christabel Angela! that’s a prettier name than Ida. Does it make you very glad to have it?” “I like it for some reasons,” said Miss Fosbrook, smiling. “Oh, tell me!” cried Bessie. “Mamma always says we should not be a bit happier if our names were pretty ones; but I don’t know, I feel as if one would; only the others like to make things plainer and uglier than they are.” “I never could call your name ugly; it is such a dignified, old, respectable name.” “Yes; but they call me Betty!” “And they call me Bell, and sometimes Jelly-bag and Currant-jelly,” said Miss Fosbrook, laughing and sighing, for she would have liked to have heard those funny names again. “Then it is no good to you!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “I don’t know that we talk of good in such a matter. I like my name because of the reason it was given to me.” “Oh, why?” eagerly asked the little girl.