"When is she coming?"
"To-morrow."
"Are you glad?"
"No. Are you?"
"I don't care. I wonder how long she will stay. I know Mother said a
week, but I dare say she'll ask her to stay longer as she did last
year."
"Well, I know she'll be tiresome, and I shall be glad when she goes
away."
"I'm going to sleep now."
"Oh, Martha, how soon you always do go to sleep! I'm not a bit sleepy
yet."
A snore from the other little bed soon showed Betty that further talk
was hopeless. She would have liked to chatter longer, but Martha had a
way of falling asleep at the most interesting points, and Betty knew it
would be useless to try and rouse her now.
So she resigned herself to her own thoughts with a sigh. Kitty was
coming to-morrow! Coming before Martha and she had had any enjoyment of
their country life together, for the children had only just left London.
Coming to spoil all their plans and games with her tiresome ways, just
as she had done last year. Of course she would insist on being first in
everything, on ruling everyone, and would be as pushing and disagreeable
as possible. It was all very well to say that she was a visitor and
must do as she wished, but that did not make it any the less provoking.
And then Martha took it all so quietly. It was almost impossible to
rouse her to be angry, and that was annoying too in its way. "I
suppose," thought Betty, very sleepily now, "that I ought to try to be
patient too, but sometimes I really _can't_." She fell asleep here, and
dreamed that Kitty was an immense "daddy-long-legs" flapping and buzzing
about in her hair.
The next afternoon Kitty arrived, full of excitement, and ready to be
more than delighted with everything.
She was eleven years old, just Martha's age, and Betty was two years
younger. Fresh from her life in London, where there always were so many
lessons to be learned and so little "fun" of any kind, this beautiful
country home was a sort of paradise to her. To have no one to scold
her, no lessons to learn, no tiresome straight walks with her governess,
and above all, to have two playfellows always ready to join in pleasures
and games! Kitty was an only child, and her life was often dull for
want of companionship. Everything went on very well at first, for there
was so much to do and see that there was no time for disputes. True,
Kitty commanded as much as ever, and had a way of setting people to
rights which was distinctly trying; but she and Betty did not come to
any open disagreement until she had been at Holmwood for nearly a week.
Nevertheless there had been many small occasions on which Betty had felt
fretted and irritated; for Kitty, without the least intending it, seemed
often to choose just the wrong thing to say and do.
And then she always wished to do _exactly_ the same as Martha and
herself, and that was _so_ tiresome.
For instance, all the children were very fond of dear Miss Grey. But
now it was always Kitty who must sit next to her, Kitty who rushed to
supply her with roses to wear and strawberries to eat, Kitty who kissed
her repeatedly at the most awkward moments. Martha and Betty, who
naturally felt that Miss Grey was their _own dear_ Miss Grey, could
hardly get near her at all, and Betty resented this very much. In fact,
she gradually got to dwell so entirely on these annoyances that she
could not think of Kitty's good qualities at all, and was quite unable
to remember that she was generous and affectionate, and that her faults,
though tiresome, were partly the result of a longing to be loved.
At last, the clouds having gathered, the storm came.
One morning, almost as soon as she got up, Betty felt that every single
thing Kitty did or said was silly. It did not occur to her that perhaps
she was a little bit cross herself, which was the real explanation.
After breakfast they all three went down to the pond, and, dividing the
water into shares, began to fish for frogs and newts.
"In a minute," said Betty to herself as she watched Kitty, "she'll say
Martha and I have the best places."
It happened just so.
"I say," said Kitty, throwing down her net and coming close up to Betty,
"I've got the worst place of all, there's nothing to catch in this
part!"
"You haven't tried long enough," said Martha.
"Let's change," was Kitty's next suggestion as she stood looking eagerly
over Betty's shoulder.
"All right," said Betty moodily, and she went round to the part of the
pond Kitty had left, where she almost immediately caught two tadpoles
and a newt.
"Look there!" she cried, holding up her net triumphantly.
"Oh!" screamed Kitty, "you _are_ lucky. _Do_ let me try," and she
rushed up to Betty's side and seized hold of the net. But this was too
much. Betty let go of the handle and said indignantly, "I shan't fish
any more. You're so unfair; you always are!" And she walked away in a
rage. "Kitty is more tiresome than ever," she said to herself. "She
spoils everything. I wish she would go away!"
All that day she preserved an attitude of dignified sulkiness in spite
of Kitty's frequent attempts to make it up. When she came and threw her
arm round her, Betty shook it off impatiently.
That evening the three little girls were in the woods with dear Miss
Grey and baby Susie, who was just three years old. Betty was walking a
little behind the others with her eyes fixed on the ground. It was damp
and mossy, and there was a thick growth of ferns and underwood at the
side of the path. Suddenly she saw something move quickly through this,
and disappear down a hole. She stopped and moved aside the ferns and
moss. What do you think she saw sitting comfortably in the hole and
staring at her with its moist bright eyes?
A large speckled toad!
"Look, look, Miss Grey!" she cried, and everyone gathered round to see
what she had found. Even Susie peered into the hole, and poked a bit of
fern gently at the toad, which sat there gazing quietly at them.
"What a jolly little home he's made for himself!" said Martha. "All
soft and moist, and just exactly to fit him."
"He can't see out much," said Betty as she put back the moss gently over
the top.
"I don't think he wants to," said Miss Grey. "He is quite satisfied,
like many other people who live in holes."
The children ran on through the wood, except Betty, who kept back and
took hold of Miss Grey's hand.
"What do you mean about living in holes?" she asked presently.
"Well, you know, we all live in holes of one kind or another. Some are
rough and some smooth, some fit us exactly, and some don't fit us at
all. Some are softly-lined with all sorts of comforts, and some are
full of pricks and troubles. And it is always very difficult to see out
of them."
"Why?" asked Betty.
"Because, like the toad's hole we saw just now, our own lives are so
near us and surround us so closely, that it is only by making an effort
that we can get out of them and understand other people's lives at all.
The only thing that can really make us do that is sympathy."
"What does that mean?"
"It is that which makes us able to put ourselves in thought into other
people's holes, and feel what it is like to live there. When we do that
it makes us remember to be patient and gentle with our friends and
companions, for if they live in uncomfortable holes it must be difficult
for them to be unselfish and amiable. If we had their troubles and
vexations we might not be half so pleasant as they are."
Betty was silent.
"Do you think Martha's hole and mine is nicer than Kitty's?" she said at
last.
"Well, I think in some ways it may be. At any rate you know Kitty has
no sisters to play with, and very little of this country life you all
enjoy so much. While her holiday lasts I should try to make it as
pleasant as possible for her, if I were you."
"I do," said Betty, "generally. Only sometimes she makes me feel so
cross."
At this moment up rushed Kitty, and elbowed Betty away from Miss Grey's
side.
"You've had her long enough!" she shouted. "It's my turn now!"
And Betty was thinking so much about the toad in the hole, that she did
not even frown.