reated in this way.

Presently it occurred to her that her grandmother might have been vexed at
her carelessness in leaving her book on the grass. It was careless; father
would have said so. Well, she could let grandmamma know she was sorry, and
feeling relieved at having found a possible solution of the problem, she
closed the spelling book.

Mrs. Whittredge looked up in evident surprise when Rosalind entered the
room and announced, "I am sorry I left my book on the grass, grandmamma."

"What do you mean, my dear?" she asked.

"I thought you didn't like it because I was careless."

"I suppose it was careless, my pet, but I had not thought of it. But tell
me what makes you care so much for that book. It seems to me there are
many stories that would be more interesting to a little girl. Suppose you
put it away and let me find you something else."

The color deepened in Rosalind's face. "It is my own, own book," she
cried, clasping it to her heart.

"Very well, you need not be tragic about it," Mrs. Whittredge said coldly,
turning to her writing.

Again Rosalind knew she had offended, and this time her resentment was
aroused. "I don't like to be spoken to in that way," she told herself, as
she walked from the room.

Before she had reached the head of the stairs her grandmother's voice
called her hack. Reluctantly she returned.

Mrs. Whittredge had risen and now came to meet her and put her arm around
her, and her voice was soft and full of affection as she asked, "Do you
want to go to the cemetery with me this afternoon, pet? Aunt Genevieve has
the carriage, and I think a walk will do me good."

The walk along the shady street and through the grassy lane to the gate at
the foot of the hill was as pleasant as a walk could be that summer day.
Rosalind kept sedately by her grandmother's side, and the face under the
drooping hat was grave. Behind them walked Martin with some garden tools
and a watering-pot.

The serious eyes brightened, and the lips curved into a smile at sight of
Maurice and Katherine playing dominos under the maple. How lovely it must
be to have a brother or sister to play with and talk to!

The cemetery was not new to Rosalind, for Mrs. Whittredge on her daily
drive usually stopped there, and its winding paths and green slopes, its
drooping willows and graceful oaks, and the flowers that bloomed
everywhere, around the stately shafts of marble and the low headstones,
seemed to her very pleasa