“Cecilia!” cried Leonora.  “Well, what do you want with me?” “Are we friends?” “You know best.”  “We are; if you will let me tell Louisa that you are sorry—­” Cecilia, interrupting her, “O! pray let me hear no more about Louisa!” “What! not confess that you were in the wrong!  Oh, Cecilia!  I had a better opinion of you.”  “Your opinion is of no consequence to me now; for you don’t love me.”  “No, not when you are unjust, Cecilia.”  “Unjust!  I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess.”  “No, but am I not your friend?” “I don’t desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel with me for happening to throw down little Louisa—­how could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand? and when it was broken, could I do more than promise her another?  Was that unjust?” “But you know, Cecilia——­” “I know,” ironically, “I know, Leonora, that you love Louisa better than you do me; that’s the injustice!” “If I did,” replied Leonora gravely, “it would be no injustice, if she deserved it better.”  “How can you compare Louisa to me!” exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly.

Leonora made no answer, for she was really hurt at her friend’s conduct; she walked on to join the rest of her companions.  They were dancing in a round upon the grass.  Leonora declined dancing, but they prevailed upon her to sing for them; her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter than usual.  Who sung so sweetly as Leonora? or who danced so nimbly as Louisa?

Away she was flying, all spirits and gayety, when Leonora’s eyes full of tears, caught hers.  Louisa silently let go her companions’ hands, and quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her.

“Nothing,” replied she, “that need interrupt you,—­Go, my dear, and dance again.”

Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry bed when Cecilia came by.  Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons:  because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured her.  The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten; perhaps, to tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin, but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called malice.

“What are you doing there, little one?” said Cecilia in a sharp tone.  “Are you eating your early strawberries here all alone?” “No,” said Louisa, mysteriously; “I am not eating them.”  “What are you doing with them—­can’t you answer then?  I’m not playing with you, child!” “Oh! as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you unless I choose it; not but what I would, if you would only ask me civilly—­and if you would not call me child.”  “Why should not I call you child?” “Because—­because—­I don’t know;—­but I wish you would stand