th in her gingham blouse. Hetty
dropped her broom and hung her head.

"I was pleased to get your letter, Hetty. I am glad you are sorry for
what occurred."

"I am sorry," said the little girl looking up frankly. "I am very sorry
while I am here. But I might not be so sorry up at the Hall. The
sorryness went away when I saw Lucy. Afterwards it came back when Mrs.
Kane came in."

"And that is why you want to stay here? Because Mrs. Kane makes you feel
good? It is an excellent reason; but why can you not learn to be good at
the Hall too? What has Mrs. Kane done to make you good?"

"Oh! she loves me, for one thing," said Hetty; "and then she makes me
pray to God. I never heard about God at Mrs. Rushton's; and Miss Davis
always told me I made him angry. Mrs. Kane's God is so kind. I would
like to make him fond of me."

"You have a strange startling way of saying things, Hetty. You must try
and be more like other children. Mrs. Kane's God is mine, and yours, and
every one's, and we must all try to please him. But if you like her way
of speaking of him you can come here as often as you please and talk to
Mrs. Kane."

"Then I must go back to the Hall?" said Hetty.

"I am sorry you look on it as a hardship, Hetty. Mr. Enderby and I think
it will be more for your good than staying here."

"I am only afraid of being bad," said Hetty simply.

"Oh! come, you will say your prayers and learn to be a good child," said
Mrs. Enderby cheerfully; and then she went away, having settled the
matter. She was more than ever convinced that Hetty's was a curious and
troublesome nature; but she had not sounded the depths of feeling in the
child, nor did she guess how ardently she desired to be good and worthy
of love, how painfully she dreaded a relapse into the old state of pride
and wilfulness which seemed to shut her out from the sympathies of
others.

After Mrs. Enderby was gone, Hetty sat for a long time with her chin in
her little hand looking out of the cottage door, and seeing nothing but
her own trouble. How was she to try and be like other children? Could
she ever learn to be like Phyllis, always cold and well-behaved, and
never the least hot about anything; or could she grow quiet and sweet
and so easily silenced as Nell? How was she to hinder her tongue from
saying out things just in the words that came to her? She wished she
could say things differently, for people so seldom seemed to understand
what she meant. Tears bega