of the
misery of coming to live in Redding. She cried herself to sleep, and
came down in the morning with swollen eyelids and a disposition to make
the very worst of things,--easy enough for any girl to do if she sets
about it.

She scarcely thanked her father when he went out and bought a red pot
for the unlucky pansy, which, after its travels and its night in brown
paper, looked as disconsolate as Mary herself. "I know it'll die right
away," she muttered as she set it on the window-sill. "Oh, dear, there's
mother calling. What _does_ she want?"

"Mary, dear," said Mrs. Forcythe when she went down, "where have you
been? I want you to put away the dishes for me."

"I'm so tired," objected Mary crossly.

"Don't you think that mother must be tired too?" asked her father
gravely.

Mary blushed and began to place the cups and plates on the cupboard
shelves. Her slow movements attracted her father's attention.

"What's the matter?" he said. "At Valley Hill you were as brisk as a
bee, always wanting to help in every thing. Here you seem unwilling to
move. How is it?"

"I--don't--like--Redding," broke out Mary in a burst of petulance.

"You haven't seen it yet."

"Yes, I have, Papa. I've seen it as much as I want to. It's horrid!"

"I never knew her to behave so before," said Mr. Forcythe in a perplexed
tone, as Mary, having unpacked the dishes, sobbed her way upstairs.

"She'll brighten when we are settled," replied Mrs. Forcythe, indulgent
as mothers are, and ready to hope the best of her child. "Oh, dear!
there's the baby waked up. Would you call Mary to go to him?"

So it went on all that week. Mr. and Mrs. Forcythe were very patient
with Mary, hoping always that this evil mood would pass, and their
bright, helpful little daughter come back to them again. She never
refused to do any thing that was asked of her; but you know the
difference between willing and unwilling service: Mary just did the
tasks set her, no more, and as soon as they were finished fled to her
own room to fret and cry. Her father took her out to walk and showed her
the new church, but Mary thought the church ugly, and the outside view
of Redding as unpleasant as the inside one. Dull streets, small houses
everywhere; no gardens, except now and then a single bed, edged with a
row of stiff cockle-shells by way of fence, and planted with pert
sweet-williams or crown imperials. These Mary thought were worse than no
flowers at all. Every thing