It was three days since Captain and Mrs. Merrifield had gone; and Miss Fosbrook stood at the window, gazing at the bright young green of the horse-chestnut trees, and thinking many various thoughts in the lull that the children had left when they rushed out of doors. She thought herself quite alone, and stood, sometimes smiling over the odd ways of her charges, and at what they put her in mind of, sometimes gravely thinking whether she had said or done the wisest things for them, or what their mother would have most approved. She was just going to move away from the window, when she saw a little figure curled up on the floor, with her head on the window-seat. “Bessie, my dear, what are you doing here? Why are not you gone out?” “I don’t want to go out.” “I thought they were to have a great game at whoop-hide.” “I don’t like whoop-hide. Johnnie pulls the clothes off my back.” “My dear, I hope you are not staying in because they called you those foolish names. It was all in good humour.” “It was not kind,” said Elizabeth, her throat swelling. “It was not true.” “Perhaps not; but you did not speak to give your reasons; and who could tell how good they might be?” “I’ve a right to my secrets as well as they have,” said the little maiden. Miss Fosbrook looked kindly at her, and she turned wistful eyes on the young governess. “Miss Fosbrook, will you keep a secret?” “That I will.” “I want my money to buy some card-board—and some ribbon—and some real true paints. I’ve got some vermilion, but I want some real good blue. And then I want to make some beautiful bands with ties—like what Papa has for his letters—for all Mamma’s letters in her desk. There’s a bundle of Papa’s when he was gone out to the Crimean War, and that’s to have a frigate on it, because of the _Calliope_—his ship, you know; and there’s one bundle of dear Aunt Sarah’s—that’s to have a rose, because I always think her memory is like the rose in my hymn, you know; and Grandmamma, she’s to have—I think perhaps I could copy a bit of the tower of Westminster Abbey out of the print, because one sees it out of her window; and, oh! I thought of so many more, but you see I can’t do it without a real good paint-box, and that costs three and sixpence. Now, Miss Fosbrook, is it stingy to wish to do that?” “Not at all, my dear; but you could not expect the others to understand what they never were told.” “I’d have said something if they had not called me stingy,” said Bessie. “It certainly was rude and hasty; but if we bear such things good-naturedly, they become better; and they were very eager about their own plan.” “Such a disagreeable thing as a pig!” continued Bessie. “If it had been anything nice, I should not have minded so much.” “Yes; but, my dear, you must remember that the pig will be a more useful present than even your pretty contrivances. You cannot call them doing good, as the other will be.”