Mrs. Smith found her crying one day when she came upon her suddenly in the hammock on the Clarks’ veranda.

“Can I help?” she asked softly, leaning over the small figure whose every movement indicated protest.

“No, you can’t,” came back the fierce retort.  “You’re one of ’em.  You don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“How I feel.  Nobody likes me.  Miss Clark just told me to go out of her room.”

“Why were you in her room?”

“Why, shouldn’t I go into her room?  When I woke up this morning I made up my mind I’d do my best to be nice all day long.  They’re so old I don’t know what to talk to ’em about, but I made up my mind I’d stick around ’em even if I didn’t know what to say.  Right after breakfast they always go upstairs—­I think it’s to be rid of me—­and they don’t come down for an hour, and then they bring down their knitting and their embroidery and they sit around all day long except when that Belgian baby that lives at your house comes in—­then they get up and try to play with her.”

Mrs. Smith smiled, remembering the efforts of the two old ladies to play with “Ayleesabet.”  Mary noticed the smile.

“They do look fools, don’t they?” she cried eagerly.

“I think they look very dear and sweet when they are playing with Ayleesabet.  I was not smiling at them but because I sympathized with their enjoyment of the baby.”

“Well, I made up my mind they needn’t think they had to stay upstairs because I wasn’t nice; I’d go upstairs and be nice.  So I went upstairs to Miss Maria’s room and walked in.”

“Walked right in?  Without knocking?”

“I walked right in.  She was sitting in front of that low table she has with the looking glass and all the bottles and boxes on it.  Her hair was down her back—­what there was of it—­and she was doing up her switch.”

Mrs. Smith was so aghast at this intrusion and at the injured tone in which it was told that she had no farther inclination to smile.

“I said, ‘I thought I’d come up and sit with you a while,’ and she said, ‘Leave the room at once, Mary,’ just like that.  She was as mad as she could be.”

“Do you blame her?”

“Why should she be mad, when I went up there to be nice to her?  She’s an old cat!”

“Dear child, come and sit on this settee with me and let’s talk it over.”

Mrs. Smith put her arm over the shaking shoulders of the angry girl and drew her toward her.  After an instant’s stiffening against it Mary admitted to herself that it was pleasant; she didn’t wonder Dorothy was sweet if her mother did this often.

“Now we’re comfortable,” said Mrs. Smith.  “Tell me, dear, aren’t there some thoughts in your mind that you don’t like to tell to any one? thoughts that seem to belong just to you yourself?  Perhaps they’re about God; perhaps they’re about people you love, perhaps they’re about your own feelings—­but they seem too private and sacred for you to tell any one.  They’re your own, ownest thoughts.”