The Hawthorns; a Story about Children

by Amy Walton__________________________________________________________

This is a nice little book, which would certainly appeal toits intended audience of eleven- or twelve-year-old littlegirls. Its background is distinctly late Victorian, butnevertheless a modern child would find nothing it could notrelate to other than the more pleasant general atmosphereof those days. 

Amy Walton has written a sequel to this book, "Penelope andthe Others, " also published on the Athelstane website. NH__________________________________________________________

THE HAWTHORNS; A STORY ABOUT CHILDREN

BY AMY WALTON

CHAPTER ONE. 

EASNEY VICARAGE. 

Quite close to the nursery window at Easney Vicarage there grew a veryold pear-tree. It was so old that the ivy had had time to hug its trunkwith strong rough arms, and even to stretch them out nearly to the top, and hang dark green wreaths on every bough. Some day, the children hadbeen told, this would choke the life out of the tree and kill it; thatwould be a pity, but there seemed no danger of it yet, for every springthe pear-tree still showed its head crowned with white blossoms, andevery summer the pears grew yellow and juicy, and fell with a soft"splosh!" on the gravel path beneath. It was interesting to watch that, and it happened so often, that it was hard to imagine a windsor pearwithout a great gash where the sharp stones had cut into it; it was alsonatural to expect when you picked it up that there would be a cunningyellow wasp hidden somewhere about it, for all the little Hawthorns hadalways found it so except the baby, and she was too small to have anyexperience. Five little Hawthorns, without counting the baby, hadlooked out of the nursery window and watched the pear-tree blossom, andthe sparrows build their nests, and the pears fall; but by the time thisstory begins, four of them, whose names were Penelope, Ambrose, Nancy, and David, were schoolroom children, and learnt lessons of Miss Greydown-stairs. They had no longer much time for looking out of thewindow, and the nursery was left in the possession of Dickie and Cicelythe baby. Dickie, whose real name was Delicia, was three years old--agreat girl now she thought--but she was still fond of kneeling up in thewindow seat and flattening her little nose against the glass. She couldnot see very much. Through the branches of the pear-tree a little tothe left appeared the church tower, and a glimpse here and there of greyand white tombstones in the churchyard. Straight in front of her therewas a broad lawn sloping down to a sunk fence, and beyond that a meadowwith tall elms in it, and after that another meadow where cows werefeeding, and that was all. In the spring the meadows turned to gold andsilver with the buttercups and daisies, and the rooks cawed noisily inthe elms; but in the summer it was all very green and very quiet. Particularly at lesson time, when the "others" were busy with Miss Grey, and Dickie must not make a noise because baby was asleep. Then therewas only Andrew to be seen in the distance, bending over his barrow orrake or spade; but he never looked up to the nursery window, and thiswas not surprising, for Andrew had a great deal to do. He worked in thegarden, and fed the chickens, and took care of Ruby the horse, andsometimes drove the wagonette into Nearminster; he also rang the churchbell, and was parish clerk. Perhaps it was because he had so much onhis mind that he was of a melancholy disposition, and seldom disposedfor conversation with the children. 

They thought it a pity sometimes that neither the nursery nor theschoolroom window looked out to the front of the house, for it was onlya little way back from the street; not that there was much going on inthe village, but still you could hear the "clink, clink" from theblacksmith's forge opposite, and see anyone passing the white gate whichled out into the road. The vicarage was an old house; many and many avicar had lived in it, and altered or added to it according to hisliking, so that it was full of twists and turns, inside and out, and hadwonderful nooks and corners, and strange cupboards under the stairs. Pennie, who was eleven years old, and a great hand at "making up, "thought a good deal about those old bygone vicars, and founded some ofher choicest romances upon them. There was one particular vicar, atablet to whose memory was placed in the chancel just opposite theHawthorns' seat in church. 

"Godfrey Ablewhite, sometime vicar of this parish, " etcetera. 

It seemed to Pennie, as she sat staring up at this during her father'ssermons, that she saw plainly what sort of man this Godfrey Ablewhitehad been. He was broad and strong, and rode a tall white horse, and haddoubtless built those large stables at the vicarage, because he was fondof hunting. From this she would go on to adorn his character with manydaring feats of horsemanship, and by the time the sermon was over therewas another story ready to be eagerly listened to by the otherchildren--and, indeed, believed also, for they had an infinite trust inPennie. This was partly because she was the eldest, and partly becauseshe "made up" so well, and had such good ideas about games and plans. No one could make a better plan than Pennie if she put her mind to it, and this was a valuable faculty, for toys were not plentiful at EasneyVicarage, and the children had to find their own amusements. These, fortunately, did not depend upon anything to be bought in shops, forthere was only one in the village, and that was the post-office too. There you could get bacon, and peppermint drops, and coarse greystockings; but for anything more interesting you had to drive toNearminster, ten miles away. Mother went over there sometimes, and tookeach child with her in turn, but even then there was a serious drawbackto buying much, and that was want of money. 

Some children would doubtless think living at Easney a very dull affair. No shops, nothing new to play with, and very little new to wear. Pennie _did_ get a little tired sometimes of always wearing serge inwinter and holland in summer; but neither she nor her brothers andsisters ever found their lives dull. They would have been astonished atthe idea. There were so many interesting things to do. For instance, there was a large family of pet beasts and birds, some living in thebarn in cages, and some free. Snuff the terrier was the most intimateand friendly of these last, and Methuselah the tortoise the greateststranger. The children regarded him with respectful awe, for he passedso much of his life hidden away in the cold dark earth, that he mustknow many strange and wonderful things which went on there; but, likeall people of really wide experience, he was singularly modest andretiring in his behaviour, and appeared on the border the first mild dayin spring after his disappearance, with no fuss at all, and as if he haddone nothing remarkable. 

Pennie's jackdaw, a forward bird, who hopped about with an air ofunderstanding everything, was one day found perched on the tortoise'sshell with the evident intention of making some searching inquiries. Methuselah, however, had very prudently drawn in his head, and Jack wasboth baffled and disgraced. 

Next to the animals in point of interest came the Wilderness. This wasa part of the garden shut off from the rest by a shrubbery, and given upto the children as their very own. Here they messed and muddled totheir hearts' content, carried out a great many interesting designs, andreared quantities of mustard and cress; once they each had a garden, butNancy, Ambrose, and David had lately struck out the bold idea of joiningtheir plots of ground and digging a well. It was a delightfuloccupation, and when the hole got deep it was pleasant to see how thesmall frogs and other slimy reptiles crawled about at the bottom; but, after much heated labour, there were no signs of water. Interestflagged then, and the well was deserted, until the ever-ready Penniesuggested the game of Joseph and his brethren, and it became a favouriteamusement to lower Dickie down in a basket amongst the frogs and newts. Dickie was both small and brave, two very necessary qualities for herpart, for the basket was narrow, and wobbled about a good deal in itsdescent; but she was used to perilous positions, and had a soul abovefear. 

The Wilderness was certainly very interesting; nevertheless at a certaintime in the summer it was completely forsaken, and that was when the haywas down. Then everyone must help to get it in; and there could be nolessons done, for even Miss Grey was in the hay-field. Then the excitedchildren, with flushed faces, worked as hard as though the whole matterdepended on them alone, and even Dickie, with tiny rake and sturdy legsplanted wide apart, did brave service. Then the maids, with sun-bonnetstilted well forward on their foreheads, came out to toss a little hay, and giggle a great deal, and say how hot it was; then the surly Andrewthrew sour looks of scorn at them, and the vicar, casting aside hisblack coat, did more real work than anyone. Then mother came into thefield with Cicely in her arms, and was welcomed with acclamations, andforthwith seated on a royal throne of hay; then, under her watchfuleyes, the ambitious Ambrose worked feverishly, and threw his arms andlegs about like an excited spider. Then Nancy laughed at him, and Davidpushed him down, and Pennie covered him with hay; and it got into hiseyes and down his throat and he choked and kicked, and mother said:"That will do, children!" Then tea was brought out and laid under thegreat oak-tree, and everyone's face was very red, and everyone was verythirsty. And then the cool evening came stealing on, and a tiny breezeblew, and the hay smelt sweet, and the shadows lengthened, and it wasbed-time just as things were getting pleasant. 

Each time all this happened it was equally delightful, and it seemed apity when the field stood bare and desolate after the hay was carried, shorn of its shadowy grass and pretty flowers; yet there was consolationtoo in the size of the stack which the children had helped to make, andwhich they always thought "bigger than last year. "

Soon after this autumn came and made the orchard and woods and lanesinteresting with apples and nuts and blackberries; and then, after theapples and nuts had been stored away, and the blackberries made intojam, it was time to look forward to the winter. 

Winter brought a great deal that was very pleasant; for sometimes hecame with snow and ice, and the children would wake up to find that inthe night he had quietly covered everything out-of-doors with asparkling white garment. 

Then what could be more delicious than to make a snow man or a snowpalace?

Pennie, who was a great reader, and always anxious to carry outsomething she had read about, inclined towards the palace; but theothers had less lofty minds. It quite contented them to make a snowman, to put one of Andrew's pipes in his mouth and a battered hat on hishead, and stick in bits of coal for his eyes. 

"Isn't he lovely?" Nancy would exclaim when all these adornments werecomplete. 

"Zovely!" echoed Dickie, clapping red worsted mittens ecstatically. 

"I think he's rather vulgar, " Pennie said doubtfully on one of theseoccasions with an anxiously puckered brow; "and besides, there's nothingto make up about him. What can you pretend?"

The snow man certainly looked hopelessly prosaic as Ambrose tilted hishat a little more to one side. 

"Guy Fawkes?" suggested David, having studied the matter solidly forsome minutes. 

"No, " said Pennie, "not Guy Fawkes--he's so common--we've had him heapsof times. But I'll tell you what would be splendid; we'll make him amartyr in Smithfield. "

The boys looked doubtful, but Nancy clapped her hands. 

"That's capital, " she said. 

"You know, " continued Pennie for the general information, "they burnedthem. "

"Alive?" inquired Ambrose eagerly. 

"Yes. "

"How jolly!" murmured David. 

"Jolly! jolly! jolly!" repeated Dickie, jumping up and down in the snow. 

"Why were they burned?" asked Ambrose, who was never tired of askingquestions, and liked to get to the bottom of a matter if possible. 

"_Why_, I am not quite sure, " answered Pennie cautiously, "because I'veonly just got to it; but I _think_ it was something about the Bible. I'll ask Miss Grey. "

"Oh, never mind all that, " interrupted the practical Nancy impatiently;"we'll make a splendid bonfire all round him and watch him melt. Comeand get the wood. "

"And we'll call him `a distinguished martyr, '" added Pennie as she movedslowly away, "because I can't remember any of their real names. "

Pennie was never satisfied to leave things as they were; she liked toadorn them with fancies and make up stories about them, and her busylittle mind was always ready to set to work on the smallest event of thechildren's lives. Nothing was too common or familiar to have mysteriesand romance woven round it; and this was sometimes a most usefulfaculty, for winter was not always kind enough to bring snow and icewith him. Very often there was nothing but rain and fog and mud, andthen mother uttered those dreadful words:

"The children must not go out. "

Then when lessons were over, and all the games exhausted, and it wasstill too early for lights, the schoolroom became full of dark corners, and the flickering fire cast mysterious shadows which changed the veryfurniture into something dim and awful. 

Then was Pennie's time--then, watching her hearers' upturned faces bythe uncertain light of the fire, she saw surprise or pity or horror onthem as her story proceeded, and, waxing warmer, she half believed ittrue herself. And this made the tales very interesting and thrilling. Yet once Pennie's talent had an unfortunate result, as you shall hear inthe next chapter. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

THE "GARRET. "

The children all thought that Pennie's best stories were about a certainlumber-room in the vicarage which was called the "Garret. " They werealso the most dreadful and thrilling, for there was something about thegarret which lent itself readily to tales of mystery and horror. Thevery air there was always murky and dim, and no sunlight could stealthrough the tiny lattice window which came poking out from the roof likea half-shut eyelid. Dust and cobwebs had covered the small leaded panesso thickly that a dusky gloom always dwelt there, and gave an unnaturaland rather awful look to the various objects. And what a strangecollection it was! Broken spindle-legged chairs, rickety boxes, pilesof yellow old music-books and manuscripts, and in one corner an ancientharp in a tarnished gilt frame. Poor deserted dusty old things! Theyhad had their day in the busy world once, but that was over now, andthey must stay shut up in the silent garret with no one to see them butthe spiders and the children. For these last came there often; treadingon tiptoe they climbed the steep stairs and unlatched the creaky doorand entered, bold but breathless, and casting anxious glances over theirshoulders for strange things that might be lurking in the corners. Theynever saw any, but still they came half hoping, half fearing; and theyhad, besides, another object in their visits, which was a great greatsecret, and only known to Pennie, Nancy, and Ambrose. It was indeed adaring adventure, scarcely to be spoken of above a whisper, andrequiring a great deal of courage. This was the secret:

They had one day succeeded in forcing open the rickety lattice, whichwas fastened by a rusty iron hasp, and looked out. There was a steepred-tiled piece of roof covered with little lumps of lichen which endedin a gutter and a low stone balustrade; there were tall crookedchimneys, and plenty of places where cats and children could walk withpleasure and safety. Soon it was impossible to resist the temptation, and one after the other they squeezed themselves through the narrowwindow, and wriggled cautiously down the steep roof as far as thebalustrade. It scraped the hands and knees a good deal to do this, andthere was always the danger of going down too fast, but when once thefeet arrived safely against the stone coping, what a proud moment itwas!

Standing upright, they surveyed the prospect, and mingled visions ofRobinson Crusoe, Christopher Columbus, and Alexander Selkirk floatedacross their brains. "I am monarch of all I survey, " said Pennie on thefirst occasion. And so she was, for everything seen from that giddyheight looked strange and new to her, and it was quite like going intoanother country. 

The old church tower with the chattering jackdaws flying round it, thepear-tree near the nursery window, the row of bee-hives in thekitchen-garden, the distant fields where the cows were no bigger thanbrown and white specks, all were lifted out of everyday life for alittle while. No one had forbidden this performance, because no oneknew of it, and the secrecy of it added to the mystery which belonged toeverything in the garret. 

It was not difficult to keep it hidden from the elders, for they did notgo into the lumber-room from year's end to year's end; so the spidersand the children had it all to themselves, and did just as they likedthere, and wove their cobwebs and their fancies undisturbed. Now, amongst Pennie's listeners when she told her tales of what went on inthe garret after nightfall, Ambrose was the one who heard with the mostrapt attention and the most absolute belief. He came next to Nancy inage, and formed the most perfect contrast to her in appearance andcharacter, for Nancy was a robust blue-eyed child, bold and fearless, and Ambrose was a slender little fellow with a freckled skin and a facefull of sensitive expression. He was full of fears and fancies, too, poor little Ambrose, and amongst the children he was considered not farshort of a coward; it had become a habit to say, "Ambrose is afraid, " onthe smallest occasions, and if they had been asked who was the bravestamongst them, they would certainly have pointed out Nancy. For Nancydid not mind the dark, Nancy would climb any tree you liked, Nancy couldwalk along the top of a high narrow wall without being giddy, Nancy hadnever been known to cry when she was hurt, therefore Nancy was a bravechild. Ambrose, on the contrary, _did_ mind all these things very much;his imagination pictured dangers and terrors in them which did not existfor Nancy, and what she performed with a laugh and no sense of fear, wasto him often an occasion of trembling apprehension. And then he was_so_ afraid of the dark! That was a special subject of derision fromthe others, for even Dickie was bolder in the matter of dark passagesand bed-rooms than he was. Ambrose was ashamed, bitterly ashamed ofthis failing, and he made up his mind a hundred times that he would getover it, but that was in the broad daylight when the sun was shining. As surely as night came, and he was asked perhaps to fetch somethingfrom the schoolroom, those wretched feelings of fear came back, for theschoolroom was at the end of a long dark passage. 

Nancy, who was always good-natured, though she laughed at him, wouldgive him a nudge on such occasions if she were near him, and say:

"Never mind, _I'll_ go;" but Ambrose never accepted the offer. He wentwith a shiver down his back, and a sort of distended feeling in hisears, which seemed to be unnaturally on the alert for mysterious noises. 

He always made up his mind before he got to the passage to check a wilddesire to run at full speed, and walk through it slowly, but thisresolve was never carried out. 

Before he had gone two steps in the darkness there would be a sense ofsomething following close behind, and then all was over, and nothing tobe seen but a panic-stricken little boy rushing along with his handsheld over his ears. How foolish! you will say. Very foolish, indeed, and so said all the other children, adding many a taunt and jeer. 

But that did not do poor Ambrose any good, and he remained just as timidas ever. Nevertheless there were moments of real danger when Ambrosehad been known to come gallantly to the front, and when he seemed tochange suddenly from a fearful, shrinking boy into a hero. Such was theoccasion when, alone of all the children, who stood shrieking on theother side of the hedge, he had ventured back into the field to rescueDickie, who by some accident had been left behind among a herd of cows. There she stood bewildered, holding up her little pinafore full ofdaisies, helpless among those large horned monsters. 

"Run, Dickie, " shouted the children; but Dickie was rooted to the groundwith terror, and did not move. 

Then Ambrose took his courage in both hands, and leaving the safeshelter of the hedge, ran back to his little sister's side. As hereached her a large black cow with crooked horns detached herself fromthe herd, and walked quickly up to the children lashing her tail. Ambrose did not stir. He stood in front of Dickie, took off his strawhat and waved it in the cow's face. She stood still. 

"Run back to the others, Dickie, " said Ambrose quietly, and, Dickie'schubby legs recovering power of movement, she toddled quickly off, strewing the ground with daisies as she went. Covering her retreat, Ambrose remained facing the cow, and walked slowly backwards stillbrandishing his hat; then, one quick glance over his shoulder assuringhim of Dickie's safety, he too took to his heels, and scrambled throughthe gap. 

That was certainly brave of Ambrose; for though Farmer Snow told themafterwards, "Thuccy black coo never would a touched 'ee, " still she_might_ have, and for the moment Ambrose was a hero. 

The children carried home an excited account of the affair to theirfather, penetrating into his very study, which was generally forbiddenground. 

"And so it was Ambrose who went back, eh?" he said, stroking Dickie'sround head as she sat on his knee. 

"Yes, father, " said Pennie, very much out of breath with running andtalking, "we were all frightened except Ambrose. "

"And why weren't you frightened, Ambrose?"

"I was, " murmured Ambrose. 

"And yet you went?"

"Yes. Because of Dickie. "

"Then you were a brave boy. "

"A brave boy, a brave boy, " repeated Dickie in a sort of sing-song, pulling her father's whiskers. 

"Now I want you children to tell me, " pursued the vicar, looking roundat the hot little eager faces, "which would have been braver--not to befrightened at all, or to go in spite of being frightened?"

"Not to be frightened at all, " answered Nancy promptly. 

"Do you all think that?"

"Yes, " said Pennie doubtfully, "I suppose so. "

"Well, " continued the vicar, "I _don't_ think so, and I will tell youwhy. I believe the brave man is not he who is insensible to fear, buthe who is able to rise above it in doing his duty. People are sometimescalled courageous who are really so unimaginative and dull that theycannot understand danger--so of course they are not afraid. They gothrough their lives very quietly and comfortably, as a rule, but they donot often leave great names behind them, although they may be both goodand useful. 

"Others, again, we are accustomed to consider cowards, because theiractive, lively imagination often causes them to see danger where thereis none. These people do not pass such peaceable lives as the first;but there is this to be remembered: the same nature which is so alive tofear will also be easily touched by praise, or blame, or ridicule, andeager therefore to do its very best. It is what we call a `sensitive'nature, and it is of such stuff very often, that great men and heroesare made. "

The children listened very attentively to what their father said, and ifthey did not understand it all they gathered enough to make them feelquite sure that Ambrose had been very brave about the cow. So theytreated him for a little while with a certain respect, and no one said"Ambrose is afraid. " As for Ambrose himself, his spirits rose veryhigh, and he began to think he never should feel afraid of anythingagain, and even to wish for some great occasion to show himself in hisnew character of "hero. " He walked about in rather a blustering mannerjust now, with his straw hat very much on one side, and brandished astick the gardener had cut for him in an obtrusively warlike fashion. As he was a small thin boy, these airs looked all the more ridiculous, and his sister Nancy was secretly much provoked by them; however, shesaid nothing until one evening when Pennie was telling them stories. 

The children were alone in the schoolroom, for it was holiday time. Itwas just seven o'clock. Soon Nurse would come and carry off Dickie andDavid to bed, but at present they were sitting one each side of Pennieon the broad window-seat, listening to her with open ears and mouths. Nancy and Ambrose were opposite on the table, with their legs swingingcomfortably backwards and forwards. 

All day long it had been raining, and now, although it had ceased, theshrubs and trees, overladen with moisture, kept up a constant drip, drip, drip, which was almost as bad. The wind had risen, and wentsighing and moaning round the house, and shook the windows of the roomwhere the children were sitting. Pennie had just finished a story, andin the short interval of silence which followed, these plaintive soundswere heard more plainly than ever. 

"Hark, " she said, holding up her finger, "how the Goblin Lady is playingher harp to-night! She has begun early. "

"Why does she only play when the wind blows?" asked Ambrose. 

"She comes _with_ the wind, " answered Pennie, "that is how she travels, as other people use carriages and trains. The little window in thegarret is blown open, and she floats in and takes one of those bigmusic-books, and finds out the place, and then sits down to the harp andplays. "

"What tune does she play?" asked David. 

"By the margin of fair Zurich's waters, " answered Pennie; "sometimes shesings too, but not often, because she is very sad. "

"Why?" inquired Ambrose, ruffling up his hair with one hand, as healways did when he was getting interested. 

Pennie paused a moment that her next remark might have full weight; thenvery impressively and slowly she said:

"She has not _always_ been a Goblin Lady. "

This was so unexpected, and suggested so much to be unfolded, that thechildren gazed speechless at Pennie, who presently continued:

"Once she was a beautiful--"

"Is she ugly now?" hastily inquired David. 

"Don't, Davie; let Pennie go on, " said Ambrose. 

"I want to know just one thing, " put in Nancy; "if it's dark when shecomes, how does she see to read the music?"

"She carries glowworms with her, " answered Pennie; "they shine just likethe lamps in father's gig at night, and light up all the garret. "

"Now, go on, Pennie, " said Ambrose with a deep sigh, for theseinterruptions were very trying to him. "Once she was a beautiful--"

"A most beautiful lady, with long golden hair. Only she was very veryproud and vain. So after she died she could not rest, but has to goflying about wherever the wind will take her. The only pleasure she hasis music, and so she always tries to get in where there is anything toplay. That is why she goes so often to the garret and plays the harp. "

"Why doesn't she go into the drawing-room and play the piano?" askedNancy bluntly. Nancy's questions were often very tiresome; she neverallowed the least haze or uncertainty to hang over any subject, andPennie was frequently checked in the full flow of her eloquence by theconsciousness that Nancy's eye was upon her, and that she was preparingto put some matter-of-fact inquiry which it would be most difficult tomeet. 

"There you go, interrupting again, " muttered Ambrose. 

"Well, but why doesn't she?" insisted Nancy, "it would be so mucheasier. "

"Why, of course she can't, " resumed Pennie in rather an injured voice, "because of the lights, and the people, and, besides, she never learntto play the piano. "

"I wish I needn't either, " sighed Nancy. "How nice to be like theGoblin Lady, and only play the harp when one likes!"

"I should like to see her, " said Ambrose thoughtfully. 

"You'd be afraid, " said Nancy; "why, you wouldn't even go into thegarret by daylight alone. "

"That was a long time ago, " said Ambrose quickly. "I wouldn't mind itnow. "

"In the dark?"

"Well, I don't believe you'd go, " said Nancy. "You might perhaps go twoor three steps, and then you'd scream out and run away; wouldn't he, Pennie?"

"Why, you know he _was_ brave about the cow, " said Pennie, "braver thanany of us. "

"That was different. He's quite as much afraid of the dark as ever. Icall it babyish. "

Nancy looked defiantly at her brother, who was getting very red in theface. She was prepared to have something thrown at her, or at least tohave her hair, which she wore in a plaited pig-tail, violently pulled, but nothing of the sort happened. Nurse came soon afterwards and boreaway David and Dickie, and as she left the room she remarked that thewind was moaning "just like a Christian. "

It certainly was making a most mournful noise that evening, but not atall like a Christian, Ambrose thought, as he listened to it--much morelike Pennie's Goblin Lady and her musical performances. 

Pennie had finished her stories now, and she and Nancy were deeplyengaged with their dolls in a corner of the room; this being anamusement in which Ambrose took no interest, he remained seated on thetable occupied with his own reflections after Nurse had left the roomwith the two children. 

Nancy's taunt about the garret was rankling in his mind, though he hadnot resented it openly as was his custom, and it rankled all the morebecause he felt that it was true. Yes, it _was_ true. He could notpossibly go into the garret alone in the dark, and yet if he really werea brave boy he ought to be able to do it. Was he brave, he wondered?Father had said so, and yet just now he certainly felt something verylike fear at the very thought of the Goblin Lady. 

In increasing perplexity he ruffled up his hair until it stood outwildly in all directions; boom! boom! went the wind, and then therefollowed a long wailing sort of sigh which seemed to come floating downfrom the very top of the house. 

It was quite a relief to hear Nancy's matter-of-fact voice just then, asshe chattered away about her dolls:

"Now, I shall brush Jemima's hair, " Ambrose heard her say to Pennie, "and you can put Lady Jane Grey to bed. "

"I ought to be able to go, " said Ambrose to himself, "and after all Idon't suppose the Goblin Lady _can_ be worse than Farmer Snow's blackcow. "

"But her head's almost off, " put in Pennie's voice. "You did it thelast time we executed her. "

"If I went, " thought Ambrose, continuing his reflections, "they wouldnever, never be able to call me a coward again. "

He slid off the table as he reached this point, and moved slowly towardsthe door. He stood still as he opened it and looked at his sisters, half hoping they would call him back, or ask where he was going, butthey were bending absorbed over the body of the unfortunate Lady JaneGrey, so that two long flaxen pig-tails were turned towards him. Theydid not even notice that he had moved. 

He went quickly through the long dimly-lighted passage, which led intothe hall, and found that Mary was just lighting the lamp. This lookedcheerful, and he lingered a little and asked her a few questions, notthat he really wanted to know anything, but because light and humancompanionship seemed just now so very desirable. Mary went away soon, and then he strolled a few steps up the broad old staircase, and metKittles the fluffy cat coming slowly down. Here was another excuse forputting off his journey, and he sat down on the stairs to pass a fewagreeable moments with Kittles, who arched his back and butted his headagainst him, and purred his acknowledgments loudly. But presently, having business of his own, Kittles also passed on his way, and Ambrosewas alone again, sitting solitary with his ruffled head leaning on onehand. Then the church clock struck eight. In half an hour it would bebed-time, and his plan not carried out. He must go at once, or not atall. He got up and went slowly on. Up the stairs, down a long windingpassage, up some more stairs, and across a landing, on to which thenursery and the children's bedrooms opened. He stopped again here, forthere was a pleasant sound of Dickie and David's voices, and thesplashing of water; but presently he thought he heard Nurse coming out, and he ran quickly round the corner into a little passage which led tothe foot of the garret stairs. This passage was dimly-lighted by asmall low window, which was almost covered outside by the thicklygrowing ivy. Even in the daytime it was very dusky, and now it wasquite dark, but Ambrose knew the way well, and he groped about with hishands until he came to the steep carpetless steps. And now his heartbegan to beat very quickly, for he felt that he was in the region ofmystery, and that anything might happen at any moment. The wind haddropped, and there was no sound at all to be heard, though he strainedhis ears to the utmost for some signs of the presence of the GoblinLady. 

"Perhaps, " thought he, "she has finished playing and gone away againwith the wind. " This was an encouraging idea, and though his kneestrembled a good deal, he went on bravely until he came to the placewhere the stairs took a sudden sharp turn; but here he saw somethingwhich brought him to a standstill again, for underneath the garret doorat the top there was a faint gleam of light. "That's the glowworms, "thought Ambrose, "and she's there still. " His spirits sank. 

_Could_ he go on? It must be now or never. With a tremendous effort hewent quickly up the remaining steps, stood on tiptoe to unlatch thedoor, and pushed it open. It swung back with a creak upon its rustyhinges, and a cold wind rushed in Ambrose's face, for the window wasopen. The room was faintly lighted, not with glowworms, but by the palerays of a watery moon, which made some of the objects whitely distinct, and left others dark and shadowy. Standing motionless on the threshold, Ambrose turned his eyes instinctively to the corner where the harp wasdimly visible. There was certainly no one playing it, but as he lookedhe heard a faint rustle in that direction. What was it? Again it came, this time louder, with a sound like the flapping of feathers. Could itbe the Goblin Lady? But Pennie never said she had wings. Unable to goeither backwards or forwards, Ambrose remained rooted to the spot withhis eyes fixed on the mysterious corner. Rustle, rustle, flap, flap, went the dreadful something, and presently there followed a sort of lowhiss. At the same moment a sudden gust of wind burst through the windowand banged the door behind him with a resounding clap. Panic-strickenhe turned and tried to open it, but his cold trembling fingers could notmove the rusty fastening. He looked wildly round for a means of escape, and his eye fell on a bright ray of moonlight resting on the latticewindow. He rushed towards it, scrambled up on to a box, from thence tothe window-ledge, and thrust himself through the narrow opening. If thething came after him now, he could go no further than the balustrade, unless he jumped down into the garden, "and that would kill me, " hethought, "Pennie has often said so. "

He stood on the rough tiles, holding on to the iron window frame withone hand; behind him the dark garret, where the thing still flapped andrustled, and before him the sloping roof, the tall chimneys, the gardenbeneath, partly lighted up by the moon. He could see the nurserywindow, too, in an angle of the house, brightly illumined by thecheerful fire within. Dickie and David were snugly in bed now, warm andsafe, and Nurse was most likely searching everywhere for him. If theyonly knew!

"If ever I get back, " he said to himself, "I never _will_ try to bebrave again; it's much better to be called a coward always. " He hadhardly come to this conclusion before, with a tremendous whirring noise, something came banging up against the shut part of the window fromwithin the garret. Ambrose gave one wild scream, let go his hold, andwent rolling over and over quicker and quicker, down--down--down. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

GOBLINET. 

He remembered nothing more until he woke up that night in his own littlebed with a very confused feeling that something dreadful had happened, though he could not think what it was. There was a light in his room, which was strange too, and presently he saw that Nurse was sitting therewith her spectacles on, nodding sleepily over a book. What could itmean? He clasped his head with both hands, and tried to remember; butit was startling to find that there was a wet bandage round it, andinside it there was a dull throbbing ache, so he soon gave up trying andlay quietly with his eyes fixed on Nurse, and the funny shadow she madeon the wall. At last she gave a most tremendous nod, which knocked offher spectacles, and then she gathered herself up and opened her eyesvery wide. Presently she came to the bed with a glass in her hand andleant over Ambrose to see if he was awake; he drank what she gave himeagerly, for he was thirsty, and as he lay down again he said with aneffort:

"I think I've had a very bad dream, Nurse, and my head _does_ ache so. "

"Well, you're safe and sound now, my lamb, " she answered, patting hisshoulder soothingly; "just you turn round and go to sleep again. "

Still puzzled Ambrose closed his eyes, and wondered vaguely for a fewminutes why Nurse called him "lamb. " She had not done it since he hadthe measles, so he supposed he must be ill; but he did not feel at allequal to asking questions about anything, and was soon fast asleepagain. 

But this was the beginning of many weary days and nights for poor littleAmbrose. When the doctor came the next day he looked gravely at MrsHawthorn. 

"The child is in a high fever, " he said, "and has had, I should think, some great nervous shock. Great care and quiet are needed. Let himsleep as much as possible. "

But that was the difficulty, for, as time went on, Ambrose seemed lessand less able to sleep quietly at night. As evening drew on the feverand restlessness increased; he could not bear to be left alone a moment, and often in the night he would start up and cry out trembling:

"Take her away. " "She is coming. " "Don't let her catch me. "

It was most distressing for everyone and puzzling too, for no one couldimagine what it was that had frightened him in the garret, or how hecame to be there at all at that time in the evening. It was evidently amost terrible remembrance to him, for he could not bear the leastreference to it, and to question him was a sure way to give him what hecalled "bad dreams. " So in his presence the subject was dropped; butMrs Hawthorn and Nurse did not cease their conjectures, and there wasone person who listened to their conversation with a feeling of thedeepest guilt. This was Pennie, who just now was having a mostmiserable time of it, for she felt that it was all her fault. If shehad not told those stories about the Goblin Lady it never would havehappened, although it certainly was Nancy who had put the garret intoAmbrose's head. 

Nancy was the only person she could talk to on the subject, but she wasnot any comfort at all. 

"Don't let's think about it, " she said. "I knew you made it up. Idaresay he'll get better soon. "

Poor Pennie could not take matters so lightly; it was a most dreadfulweight on her mind, and she felt sure she should never have anotherhappy minute till she had confessed about the Goblin Lady. But she wasnot allowed to see Ambrose, and she could not bring herself to tellanyone else about it. Once she nearly told mother, and then somethingstuck in her throat; and once she got as far as the study door with theintention of telling father, but her courage failed her and she ranaway. 

She would creep to Ambrose's door and listen, or peep round the screenat him while he was asleep, and her face got quite thin and pointed withanxiety. Every morning she asked:

"Is he better, mother? May I go and sit with him?" But the answeralways was:

"Not to-day, dear. We hope he is better, but he has such bad nights. "

Pennie was very wretched, and felt she could not bear it much longer. 

She was in the nursery one morning looking listlessly out of the window, when her attention was caught by a conversation going on between Nurseand Mrs Hawthorn, who was sitting there with Cicely in her arms. 

"I know no more than that baby, ma'am, " said Nurse emphatically, as shehad said a hundred times before, "why or wherefore Master Ambrose shouldtake such a thing into his head. It's easy to frame that he should getscared--when once he was up there in the dark, for he's a timid childand always has been. But what _took_ him there all alone? That's what_I_ want to know!"

"I cannot understand it, " said Mrs Hawthorn; "but it makes him so muchworse to ask him questions that we must leave it alone until he isstronger. We cannot be too thankful that he was not killed. "

"Which I never doubted for one moment that he was, ma'am, when I foundhim, " continued Nurse; "he was lying all crumpled up and stone-cold, forall the world like Miss Nancy's dormouse when she forgot to feed it fora week. "

On this theme Nurse was apt to become very voluble, and there were fewthings she liked better than describing her own feelings on theoccasion. Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand entreatingly: "Do not talk ofit, Nurse, " she said; "I cannot bear it. " And then they went on todiscuss other matters. 

Now all this while Pennie had been trying to make up her mind to speak. There was a fly just in front of her on the window-pane, and as shewatched it crawling slowly along she said to herself:

"When it gets as far as the corner I will tell mother. " But alas!before the fly had nearly completed his journey Mrs Hawthorn rose toleave the nursery. As she passed Pennie she stopped and said:

"Why, Pennie, my child, it is not like you to be idle. And you lookmournful; what's the matter?"

"I think Miss Pennie frets after her brother, ma'am, " observed Nurse. 

"Well, then, " said Mrs Hawthorn, "I have something to tell you that Iam sure you will like. The doctor thinks Ambrose much better to-day, and if you are very quiet and discreet I will let you go and have teawith him this afternoon at five o'clock. "

"Oh, mother, mother, " cried Pennie, "how lovely! May I really?"

"Yes; but you must promise me one thing, and that is that you will notspeak of anything that has to do with the garret or his accident. "

Pennie's face fell. 

"Very well, mother, " she said in a dejected tone. 

"If you can't feel sure, Pennie, " said her mother observing thehesitation, "I can't let you go. "

"I won't, really, mother, " repeated Pennie with a sigh--"truly andfaithfully. "

But she felt almost as low-spirited as ever, for what was the good ofseeing Ambrose if she could not make him understand about the GoblinLady? She remained at the window pondering the subject, with her eyesfixed on the grey church tower, the top of which she could just seethrough the branches of the pear-tree. It reminded her somehow of herfather's text last Sunday, and how pleased she and Nancy had beenbecause it was such a short one to learn. Only two words: "Prayalways. " She said it to herself now over and over again withoutthinking much about it, until it suddenly struck her that it would be agood thing to say a little prayer and ask to be helped out of thepresent difficulty. "If I believe enough, " she said to herself, "Ishall be helped. Father says people always are helped if they believeenough when they ask. "

She shut her eyes up very tight and repeated earnestly several times: "I_do_ believe. I really and truly do believe;" and then she said herprayer. 

After this she felt a little more comfortable and ran out to play withNancy, firmly believing that before five o'clock something would turn upto her assistance. 

But Pennie was doomed to disappointment, for five o'clock came withoutany way out of the difficulty having presented itself. 

"I suppose I didn't believe hard enough, " she said to herself as shemade her way sorrowfully upstairs to Ambrose's room. Just as shethought this the study door opened and her father came out. He wascarrying something which looked like a large cage covered with a cloth. Pennie stopped and waited till he came up to her. 

"Why, whatever can that be, father?" she said. "Is it alive? Where areyou taking it?"

"It is a little visitor for Ambrose, " he answered; "and I'm taking himupstairs to tea with you both. But you're not to look at him yet;" forPennie was trying to peep under the cloth. 

When they got into Ambrose's room she was relieved to find that helooked just like himself, though his face was very white and thin. Hewas much better to-day, and able to sit up in a big arm-chair with apicture-book. But nevertheless before Nurse left the room she whisperedto Pennie again that she must be very quiet. 

There was no need for the caution at present, for Pennie was in one ofher most subdued moods, though at any other time she would have beenvery much excited to know what was inside the cage. 

"Now, " said the vicar when he was seated in the arm-chair, with Ambrosesettled comfortably on his knee, "we shall see what Ambrose and thislittle gentleman have to say to each other. "

He lifted off the covering, and there was the dearest little brown andwhite owl in the world, sitting winking and blinking in the suddenlight. 

Ambrose clasped his little thin hands, and his eyes sparkled withpleasure. 

"Oh, father, " he cried, "what a darling dear! Is he for me? I always_did_ want to have an owl so!"

He was in such raptures when he was told that the owl was to be his veryown, that when the tea was brought in he could hardly be persuaded totouch it. Pennie, too, almost forgot her troubles in the excitement ofpouring out tea, and settling with Ambrose where the owl was to live. 

"The nicest place will be, " at last said Ambrose decidedly, "in thatcorner of the barn just above where Davie's rabbits are. You know, Pennie. Where it's all dusky, and dark, and cobwebby. "

"I think that sounds just the sort of place he would feel at home in, "said their father; "and now, would you like me to tell you where I gothim?"

"Oh, yes, please, father, " said Ambrose, letting his head drop on MrHawthorn's shoulder with a deep sigh of contentment. "Tell us everylittle scrap about it, and don't miss any. "

"Well, last night, about nine o'clock, when I was writing in the study, I wanted to refer to an old book of sermons, and I couldn't rememberwhere it was. I looked all over my book-cases, and at last I went andasked mother, and she told me that it was most likely put away in thegarret. "

Ambrose stirred uneasily, and Pennie thought to herself, "They said Iwasn't to mention the garret, and here's father talking about it likeanything. "

"So I took a lamp, " continued Mr Hawthorn, "and went upstairs, andpoked about in the garret a long while. I found all sorts of funny oldthings there, but not the book I wanted, so I was just going down againwhen I heard a rustling in one corner--"

Pennie could see that Ambrose's eyes were very wide open, with aterrified stare as if he saw something dreadful, and he was clingingtightly with one hand to his father's coat. 

"So I went into the corner and moved away a harp which was standingthere, and what do you think I saw? This little fluffy gentleman justwaked up from a nap, and making a great fuss and flapping. He was veryangry when I caught him, and hissed and scratched tremendously; but Isaid, `No, my friend, I cannot let you go. You will just do for mylittle son, Ambrose. ' So I put him into a basket for the night, andthis morning I got a cage for him in the village, and here he is. "

Mr Hawthorn looked down at Ambrose as he finished his story: thefrightened expression which Pennie had seen had left the boy's face now, and there was one of intense relief there. He folded his hands, andsaid softly, drawing a deep breath:

"Then it was not the Goblin Lady after all. "

"The Goblin Lady! What can the child mean?" said the vicar lookinginquiringly at Pennie. 

But he got no answer to his question, for Pennie's long-pent-up feelingsburst forth at last. Casting discretion to the winds, she threw herarms vehemently round Ambrose, and blurted out half laughing and halfcrying:

"I made it up! I made it up! There _isn't_ any Goblin Lady. Oh, dear!Oh, dear! I made it every bit up!"

The two children sobbed and laughed and kissed each other, and madeincoherent exclamations in a way which their puzzled father felt to bemost undesirable for an invalid's room. He had been carefully warnednot to excite Ambrose, and what _could_ be worse than this sort ofthing?

Perfectly bewildered, he said sternly:

"Pennie, if you don't command yourself, you must go out of the room. You will make your brother ill. It is most thoughtless of you. Tell mequietly what all this means. "

With many jerks and interruptions, and much shamefacedness Pennieproceeded to do so. Looking up at her father's face at the end she wasmuch relieved to see a little smile there, though he did not speak atonce. 

"You're not angry, are you, father?" said Ambrose doubtfully at last. 

"No, I am not angry, " replied Mr Hawthorn, "but I am certainlysurprised to find I have two such foolish children. I don't know whowas the sillier--Pennie to make up such nonsense, or Ambrose to believeit. But now I am not going to say anything more, because it is quitetime for Ambrose to go to bed, so Pennie and the owl and I will saygood-night. "

What a relief it was to hear the dreaded subject spoken of so lightly. Pennie felt as though a great heavy weight had been suddenly lifted offher mind, and she was so glad and happy that after she had leftAmbrose's room she could not possibly walk along quietly. So she hoppedon one leg all down a long passage, and at the top of the stairs she metNurse hastening up to her patient:

"You look merry, Miss Pennie, " said she. "I hope you haven't beenexciting Master Ambrose. "

"Why, yes, " Pennie couldn't help answering. "Father and I have bothexcited him a good deal; but he's much better, and now he'll get quitewell. "

And Pennie was right, for from that night Ambrose improved steadily, though it was some time before he became quite strong and lost hisnervous fears. 

The first visit he paid, when he was well enough to be wheeled into thegarden in a bath-chair, escorted by the triumphant children, was to seehis new pet, the owl. There he was, hanging in his cage in the darkestcorner of the barn. Ambrose looked up at him with eyes full of thefondest affection. 

"What shall we call him, Pennie?" he said. "I want some name which hasto do with a goblin. "

Pennie considered the subject with her deepest frown. 

"Would `Goblinet' do?" she said at length; "because, you see, he is sosmall. "

"Beautifully, " said Ambrose. 

So the owl was called "Goblinet. "

CHAPTER FOUR. 

DAVID'S PIG. 

By the time Ambrose was quite well again, and able to run about with theothers and play as usual, the holidays were over; Miss Grey came back, and lessons began. 

It was late autumn; hay-time had passed and harvest, and all the fieldslooked brown and bare and stubbly. The garden paths were covered withdry withered leaves, which made a pleasant sound when you shuffled yourfeet in them, and were good things for Dickie to put into her littlebarrow, for as often as she collected them there were soon plenty more. Down they came from the trees, red, brown, yellow, when the wind blew, and defied the best efforts of Dickie and Andrew. There were very fewflowers left now--only a few dahlias and marigolds, and some clumps ofMichaelmas daisies, so the garden looked rather dreary; but to make upfor this there was a splendid crop of apples in the orchard, and thelanes were thickly strewn with bright brown acorns. And these last werespecially interesting to David, for it was just about this time that hegot his pig. 

David was a solid squarely-built little boy of seven years old, withhair so light that it looked almost grey, and very solemn blue eyes. Hespoke seldom, and took a long time to learn things, but when once thatwas done he never forgot them; and in this he was unlike Nancy, whocould learn quickly, but forget almost as soon. Miss Grey always feltsure that when once David had struggled through a lesson, whether itwere the kings and queens of England, or the multiplication table, thathe would remember it if she asked him a question weeks afterwards. Butthen it was a long time before he knew it--so long that it often seemeda hopeless task. Nevertheless, if David was slow he was certainly sure, and people had a habit of depending upon him in various matters. Forinstance, when Nurse wanted to intrust the baby for a few moments to anyof the children during her absence from the nursery, it was never to thethree elder she turned, but to David, and her confidence was notmisplaced. Once having undertaken any charge or responsibility, Davidwould carry it through unflinchingly, whether it were to amuse the baby, or to take care of any of the animals while their various owners wereaway. It would have been impossible to him to have forgotten to feedthe dormouse for a week as Nancy did, or to have left Sappho the canarywithout any water, which Pennie to her great agony of mind was onceguilty of doing. 

David's animals never missed their meals, or were neglected in any way;he was particularly proud of his sleek rabbits, which, together with afamily of white rats, lived in the barn, and certainly throvewonderfully, if numbers mean prosperity. The biggest rabbit was calledGoliath, and it was David's delight to hold him up by the ears, in spiteof his very powerful kicks, and exhibit his splendid condition to anyadmiring beholder. But though Goliath was handsome, and the white ratsnumerous, their owner was not quite satisfied, for his fondest wish forsome time past had been to possess a pig. A nice little round blackpig, with a very curly tail; he would then be content, and ask nothingfurther of fortune. 

He thought of the pig, and hoped for the pig, and it would not be toomuch to say that he dreamed of the pig. When he passed a drove of themin the road, squeaking, pushing, grunting, and going every way but theright, he would stand in speechless admiration. His mind was apractical one, and did not dwell merely on the pleasure of owning thepig itself, but also on the prospect of fattening, selling, andrealising money by it. 

"You'd never be able to have it killed, " said Nancy, who was his chiefconfidante, "after you got fond of it, and it got to know you; you'd assoon kill Goliath. "

"I shouldn't have it killed, " answered David. "I should sell it to thefarmer. "

"Well; but _he'd_ have it killed, " pursued the relentless Nancy. 

This was unanswerable. 

"Never mind. I want a pig, and I shall save up my money, " said Davidsturdily. 

David's bank was a white china house which stood on the nurserymantel-shelf; it had a very red roof with a hole in it, and into this hecontinued for some time to drop all his pennies, and halfpennies, andfarthings with great persistency, and a mind steadily fixed on the pig. After all, however, he got it without spending any of his savings, andthis is how it happened:--

One fine morning at the end of September the children were all ready fortheir usual walk with Miss Grey--all, that is, except Dickie, who, beingstill a nursery child, went out walking with Nurse and baby. The otherfour, however, were ready, not only as regards hats and jackets, butwere also each provided with something to "take out, " which, in theiropinion, was quite as indispensable. Penelope therefore carried asketching book, Ambrose a boat under one arm, and under the other acamp-stool in case Miss Grey should be tired, Nancy two dolls and askipping-rope, and David a whip and a long chain. At the end of thiswas the terrier dog Snuff, choking and struggling with excitement, andgiving vent to smothered barks. Snuff would willingly have been loose, and there was indeed not the least occasion for this restraint, as itwould have been far easier to lose David than the dog; he knew well, however, that children have their little weaknesses in these matters, and submitted to his bondage with only a few whines of remonstrance whenthe company had once fairly started. 

His patience was a good deal tried on this occasion, as well as that ofthe children, for it seemed as though Mrs Hawthorn never would finishtalking to Miss Grey in the hall. At last, however, she said somethingwhich pleased them very much:

"I want you to go to Hatchard's Farm for me, and ask about the butter. "

Now Hatchard's Farm was the place of all others that the childrendelighted to visit. It was about two miles from Easney, and the nicestway to it was across some fields, where you could find mushrooms, into alittle narrow lane where the thickly growing blackberry brambles caughtand scratched at you as you passed. This lane was muddy in winter, andat no time in the year did it appear so desirable to Miss Grey as to thechildren; but it was such a favourite walk with them that she generallyyielded. The only other way of getting to the farm was by thehigh-road, and that was so dreadfully dull! After scrambling along thelane a little while, you saw the red-brown roofs of the barns andoutbuildings clustering round the house itself, and almost hiding it, and soon a pleasant confusion of noises met your ear. Ducks quacked, hens cackled, pigeons perched about on the roofs kept up a monotonousmurmur; then came the deep undertones of the patient cows, and as youneared the house you could generally hear Mrs Hatchard's voice in herdairy adding its commanding accents to the medley of sounds. Itcertainly was a delightful farm, and David had long ago determined thatwhen he grew up he would have one just like it, and wear brown leathergaiters like Farmer Hatchard's. He would also keep pigs like his--quiteblack, with very short legs and faces, and tightly curled tails. Butsome time must pass before this, and the next best thing was to go asoften as possible to see them, and ask all manner of questions of thefarmer or his men. There was no one in the great wide kitchen when theparty arrived on this occasion, and Miss Grey sat down to wait for MrsHatchard, while the children made their usual tour of admiringexamination. They had seen every object in the room hundreds of timesbefore, but how interesting they always were! The high-backed settle oneach side of the fire was dark with age, and bright with the toil ofMrs Hatchard's hands; the heavy oak rafters were so conveniently lowthat the children could see the farmer's gun, a bunch of dips, a pair ofclogs, a side of bacon kept there as in a sort of storehouse. At theend of the room opposite the wide hearth was the long narrow deal table, where the farmer and his men all dined together at twelve o'clock, forthey were old-fashioned people at Hatchard's Farm; and behind the doorhung the cuckoo clock, before which the children never failed to standin open-mouthed expectation if it were near striking the hour. On allthis the sun darted his rays through the low casement, and failed tofind, for all his keen glances, one speck of dust. 

Miss Grey sat in the window-seat looking absently out at the marigoldsand asters in the gay garden, when she felt a little hand suddenlyplaced in hers, and, turning round, saw David, his face crimson withsuppressed excitement:

"Come, " he said, pulling her gently, "come and look here. "

He led her to the hearth, and pointed speechless to something whichlooked like a small flannel bundle in a basket. As she looked at it, itmoved a little. 

"Well, Davie, " said she, "what is this wonderful thing? Somethingalive?"

David had knelt down close to the bundle and was peering in between thefolds of the flannel with an expression of reverent awe. He looked upgravely. 

"Don't you see, " he said slowly in lowered accents, "it's a little babypig!"

Stooping down Miss Grey examined it more closely, and found that it wasindeed a little black pig of very tender age, so closely covered up inflannel that only its small pointed snout and one eye were visible. 

"Do you suppose it's ill?" inquired David. 

"I daresay it is, " answered Miss Grey; "we'll ask Mrs Hatchard about itpresently. "

The other children had gathered round, all more or less interested inthe invalid pig; but presently, Pennie having suggested that they shouldgo and see the new little calf, they ran out of the kitchen in search offresh excitement. 

"Come along, Davie, " said Ambrose, looking back from the door; "come outand see the other pigs. "

"No, " said David decidedly, "I shall stop here. "

He took his seat as he spoke on the corner of the settle nearest thepig, with the evident intention of waiting for Mrs Hatchard's arrival;he was not going to lose a chance of inquiring closely into such animportant subject. 

And at last Mrs Hatchard came bustling in, cheerful, brisk, andruddy-faced as usual, with many apologies for her delay. Miss Greyplunged at once into business with her, and the patient David satsilently biding his time for the fit moment to put his questions. 

"Won't you run out, little master?" said the good-natured farmer's wife, noticing the grave little figure at last. "There's the calves to see, and a fine litter of likely young pigs too. "

"No, thank you, " said David politely. "I want to know, please, why youkeep this one little pig in here, and whether it's ill. "

"Oh, aye, " said Mrs Hatchard, coming up to the basket and stooping tolook at the occupant, which was now making a feeble grunting noise. "I'd most forgot it. You see it's the Antony pig, and it's that weaklyand dillicut I took it away to give it a chance. I doubt I sha'n't rearit, though, for it seems a poor little morsel of a thing. "

"How many other little pigs are there?" asked David. 

"Why, there's ten on 'em--all fine likely pigs except this one, and theydo that push and struggle and fight there's no chance for him. "

"Why do you call it the Antony pig?" pursued David with breathlessinterest. 

"Well, I don't rightly know why or wherefore, " said Mrs Hatchard; "it'sjust a name the folks about here always give to the smallest pig in thelitter. "

"Do you think Farmer Hatchard knows?" inquired David. 

"Well, he might, " said Mrs Hatchard, "and then again he mightn't. ButI tell you what, Master David, if yonder little pig lives, and providin'the vicar has no objections, I'll give him to you. You always fanciedpigs, didn't you now?"

David was still leaning fondly over the basket, and made no reply atfirst. It took some time to fully understand the reality of such asplendid offer. 

"Come, Davie, " said Miss Grey, "we must say good-bye and go and find theothers. "

Then he got up, and held out his hand gravely to Mrs Hatchard. 

"Good-bye, " he said. "Thank you. I hope you'll accede in rearing theAntony pig. I should like to have it very much, if father will let me. "

David went home from the farm hardly able to believe in his own goodfortune, but according to his custom he said very little. 

The matter was discussed freely, however, by the other children, and itwas so interesting that it lasted them all the way back. Would the piglive? they wondered, and if it did, would their father let David haveit? Where would it live? What would David call the pig if he did getit? This last inquiry was put by Ambrose, and he felt quite rebukedwhen his brother replied scornfully, "Antony, of course. "

But there was some demur on the part of the vicar when he was informedof the proposed addition to his live stock. 

"I don't like to disappoint you, my boy, " he said, "but you know Andrewhas plenty to do already. He has the garden to look after, and thecows, and my horse. I don't think I could ask him to undertake anythingmore. "

Poor little David's face fell, and his underlip was pushed outpiteously. He would not have cried for the world, and none of thechildren ever thought of questioning what their father said; so he stoodsilent, though he felt that the world without the Antony pig would beempty indeed. 

"Do you want it very much, Davie?" said the vicar, looking up from hiswriting at the mournful little face. 

"Yes, father, I do, " said David, and with all his resolution he couldnot choke back a little catching sob as he spoke. 

"Well, then, look here, " said his father; "if you will promise me totake entire charge of it, and never to trouble Andrew, or call him awayfrom his work to attend to it, you shall have the pig. But if I findthat it is neglected in any way, I shall send it back at once to FarmerHatchard. Is that a bargain?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, " cried the delighted David; and he ran out to tell theresult of his interview to the anxious children waiting outside thestudy door. 

So David was to have the pig; and, with the assistance of Ambrose and afew words of advice from Andrew, he at once began to prepare ahabitation for it. Fortunately there was an old sty still in existence, which only wanted a little repairing, and everything was soon ready. But the rearing of the Antony pig still hung trembling in the balance, and some anxious weeks were passed by David; he called to inquire afterit as often as he possibly could, and, to his great joy, found it oneach occasion more lively and thriving--thanks to Mrs Hatchard'sdevoted care. 

And at last the long-wished-for day arrived. Antony was driven to hisnew home with a string tied round his leg, in the midst of a triumphalprocession of children, and David's joy and exultation were complete. 

There was certainly no danger of his neglecting his charge, or of askinganyone to assist him in its service; never was pig so well cared for asAntony, and as time went on he showed an intelligent appreciation ofDavid's attentions not unmixed with affection. Perhaps in consequenceof these attentions he soon developed much shrewdness of character, andhad many little humorous ways which were the pride of his master'sheart. The two were fast friends, and seemed to understand each otherwithout the need of speech, though David had been known to talk to hispig when he believed himself to be in private. As for the _selling_part of the plan, it seemed quite to have faded away, and when Andrewsaid with a grin:

"Well, young master, t'pig 'ull soon be ready for market noo, " David gotquite hot and angry, and changed the subject at once. 

On rare occasions Antony was conducted, making unctuous snorts ofpleasure, into the field to taste a little fresh grass and rout aboutwith his inquisitive nose; but the garden was of course forbiddenground. Therefore, when he was once discovered in the act of enjoyinghimself amongst Andrew's potatoes, the consternation was extreme. Itwas Nancy who saw him, as she sat one morning learning a French verb, and staring meanwhile absently out of the schoolroom window. Herexpression changed suddenly from utter vacancy to keen interest, and hermonotonous murmur of "J'ai, Tu as, Il a, " to a shout of, "Oh, Davie, there's Antony in the garden!"

"Nancy, " said Miss Grey severely, "you know it is against rules to talkin lesson time. Be quiet. "

"But I can't really, Miss Grey, " said Nancy, craning her neck to get abetter view of the culprit; "he's poking up the potatoes like anything. Andrew _will_ be so cross. You'd better just let us go and chase himback again. "

The excitement had now risen so high that Miss Grey felt this wouldreally be the best plan, for attention to lessons seemed impossible, andsoon the four children were rushing helter-skelter across the garden inpursuit of Antony. With a frisk of his tail and a squeak of defiance heled the chase in fine style, choosing Andrew's most cherished borders. What a refreshment it was, after the tedium of French verbs and Englishhistory, and what a pity when Antony, after a brave resistance, was atlength hustled back into his sty!

Whether the door was insecure, or not too carefully fastened after this, remains uncertain; but it is a fact that these pig-chases came to be ofpretty frequent occurrence, and always happened, by some strange chance, during school hours. The cry of, "Pig out!" and the consequent rush ofchildren in pursuit, at last reached such a pitch that both Miss Greyand the much-tried Andrew made complaint to the vicar. Miss Greydeclared that discipline was becoming impossible, and Andrew that therewould not be a "martal vegetable in the garden if Master David's pig gotout so often. " Then the vicar made a rule to this effect:

"If David's pig is seen in the garden again, it goes back that same dayto Farmer Hatchard. "

The vicar's rules were not things to be disregarded, and his threatswere always carried out. David and Ambrose might have been seen with alarge hammer and nails very busy at the pig-sty that afternoon, andAntony's visits to the garden ceased, until one unlucky occasion whenDavid was away from home, and it fell out in the following manner:--

In the cathedral town of Nearminster, ten miles from Easney, livedPennie's godmother Miss Unity Cheffins, and it was Mr and MrsHawthorn's custom to pay her an annual visit of two or three days, taking each of the four elder children with them in turn. It was anoccasion much anticipated by the latter, but more for the honour of thething than from any actual pleasure connected with it, for Miss Unitywas rather a stiff old lady, and particular in her notions as to theirproper behaviour. She was fond of saying, "In _my_ time young peopledid so and so, " and of noticing any little failure in politeness, oreven any personal defect. She was a rich old lady, and lived in a greatsquare house just inside the Cathedral Close; it was sombrely furnished, and full of dark old portraits, and rare china bowls and knick-knacks, which last Miss Unity thought a great deal of, and dusted carefully withher own hands. Amongst the many injunctions impressed upon thechildren, they were told never to touch the china, and there were indeedso many pitfalls to be avoided, that the visit was not by any means anunmixed pleasure to Mrs Hawthorn. The children themselves, however, though they missed the freedom of their home, and were a little afraidof the upright Miss Unity, managed to extract enjoyment from it, andalways looked enviously upon the one of their number whose turn it wasto go to Nearminster. 

And now the time had come round again, and it was David's turn to go, but there was one drawback to his pleasure, because he must leave thepig. Who could say that some careless hand might not leave the door ofthe sty open or insecurely fastened during his absence? Then Antony'sfate would be certain, for Andrew was only too eager to carry out thevicar's sentence of banishment, and was on the watch for the leastexcuse to hurry the pig back to the farm. 

After turning it over in his mind, David came to the conclusion that hecould best ensure Antony's safety by placing him under someone's specialcare, and he chose Nancy for this important office. 

"You _will_ take care of him, won't you?" he said, drawing up very closeto her and fixing earnest eyes upon her face, "and see that his gate isalways fastened. "

Nancy was deeply engaged in painting a picture in the _Pilgrim'sProgress_; she paused a moment to survey the effect of Apollyon indelicate sea-green, and said rather absently:

"Of course I will. And so will Ambrose and so will Pennie. "

"No, but I want you partickerlerlery to do it, " said David, bunglingdreadfully over the long word in his anxiety--"you _more_ than theothers. "

"All right, " said Nancy with her head critically on one side. 

"I want you to promise three things, " went on David--"to keep his gateshut, and to give him acorns, and not to let Dickie poke a stick athim. "

"Oh, yes, I'll promise, " said Nancy readily. 

"Truly and faithfully?" continued David, edging still closer up to her;"you won't forget?"

"No, I really won't, " said Nancy with an impatient jerk of her elbow;"don't you worry me any more about it. "

"I took care of your dormouse when _you_ went, " continued David, "anddidn't forget it once. So you ought to take care of my pig, it's onlyfair. "

"Well, don't I tell you I'm going to?" said Nancy, laying down herpaint-brush with an air of desperation. "I sha'n't do it a bit more foryour asking so often. Do leave off. "

"You'll only be away three days, Davie, " said Pennie, looking up fromher book; "we can manage to take care of Antony that little while Ishould think. "

"Well, " said David, "Nancy's got to be 'sponsible, because I took careof her mouse. "

"If I were you, " said Ambrose with a superior air, "I wouldn't use suchlong words; you never say them right. "

"I say, " interrupted Pennie, putting down her book, "what do you alllike best when you go to Nearminster? I know what _I_ like best. "

"Well, what is it?" said Ambrose; "you say first, and then Nancy, andthen me, and then David. "

"Well, " said Pennie, clasping her knees with much enjoyment, "what Ilike best is going to church in the Cathedral in the afternoon. Whenit's a little bit dusky, you know, but not lighted up, and all thepillars look misty, and a long way off, and there are very few people. And then the boys sing, and you feel quite good and just a little bitsad; I can't think why it is that I never feel like that in our church;I suppose it's a cathedral feeling. That's what I like best. Now you, Nancy. "

"Why, " said Nancy without the least hesitation. "I like that littleChinese mandarin that stands on the mantel-piece in Miss Unity'ssitting-room, and wags its head. "

"And _I_ like the drive back here best, " said Ambrose, "because, whenwe're going there's only Miss Unity to see at the end; but when we gethere there are all the animals and things. "

"I don't call that liking Nearminster. I call it liking home, " saidNancy. "Now, it's your turn, David. "

"I don't know what I like best, " said David solemnly. "I only know whatI like least. "

"What's that?"

"Miss Unity, " said David with decision. 

"Should you call her very ugly?" inquired Ambrose. 

"Yes, of course, quite hideous, " replied Nancy indistinctly, with herpaint-brush in her mouth. 

"Well, I'm not quite sure, " said Pennie; "once I saw her eyes look quitenice, as if they had a light shining at the back of them. "

"Like that face Andrew made for us out of a hollow pumpkin, with acandle inside?" suggested Nancy. 

"You're always so stupid, Nancy!" said Ambrose scornfully. "I know whatPennie means about Miss Unity; _I've_ seen her eyes look nice too. Don't you remember, too, how kind she was when Dickie was so rude toher? I've never been so afraid of her since that. "

The next day the party started for Nearminster in the wagonette, Davidsitting in front with his feet resting comfortably on his own littletrunk. Andrew, who drove, allowed him to hold the whip sometimes, andthe end of the reins--so it was quite easy to fancy himself a coachman;but this delightful position did not make him forget other things. Beckoning to Nancy, who stood with the rest on the rectory steps, helifted a solemn finger. 

"Remember!" he said. 

Nancy nodded, the wagonette drove away followed by wavings, andgood-byes, and shrieking messages from the children, and was soon out ofsight. 

"That was like Charles the First, " said Pennie; "don't you remember justbefore they cut off his head--"

"Oh, don't!" said Nancy; "pray, don't talk about Charles the First outof lesson time. "

CHAPTER FIVE. 

MISS UNITY. 

It was a lonely life which Miss Unity Cheffins lived at Nearminster, butshe had become so used to it that it did not occur to her to wish forany other. Far far in the distance she could remember a time wheneverything had not been so quiet and still round her--when she was oneof a group of children who had made the old house in the Close echo withtheir little hurrying footsteps and laughing voices. One by one thosevoices had become silent and the footsteps had hastened away, and MissUnity was left alone to fill the empty rooms as she best might with thememories of the past. That was long long ago, and now her days were alljust alike, as formal and even as the trimly-kept Close outside herdoor. And she liked them to be so; any variety or change would havebeen irksome to her. She liked to know that exactly as eight o'clocksounded from the cathedral Bridget would bring her a cup of tea, wouldpull up her blind to a certain height, and would remark, "A finemorning, ma'am, " or "A dull morning, " as the case might be. At eleveno'clock, wet or dry, she would sally forth into the town to do the lightpart of her marketing and cast a thoughtful eye on the price ofvegetables; after which, girt with a large linen apron, and her headprotected by a mob-cap, she would proceed to dust and wash her cherishedchina. From much loneliness she had formed a habit of talking quietlyto herself during these operations; but no one could have understoodher, for she only uttered the fag-ends of her thoughts aloud. 

The Chinese mandarin which Nancy admired was the object of Miss Unity'sfondest care; some bygone association was doubtless connected with him, for she seldom failed to utter some husky little sentences of endearmentwhile she lingered over his grotesque person with tender touches of herfeather brush. So the day went on. After her dinner, if the weatherwere fair, she would perhaps deck herself with a black silk mantilla anda tall bonnet with nodding flowers, and go out to visit some old friend. A muffin, a cup of tea, and perhaps a little cathedral gossip wouldfollow; and then Miss Unity, stepping primly across the Close, reachedthe dull shelter of her own home again, and was alone for the rest ofthe evening. At ten o'clock she read prayers to Bridget and the littlemaid, and so to bed. 

The even course of these days was only disturbed twice in the year--onceby Mr and Mrs Hawthorn's visit to Nearminster, and once by MissUnity's visit to Easney. These were important events to her, anticipated for months, not exactly with pleasure; for, though she wasreally fond of her friends, she was shy, and to be put out of her usualhabits was, besides, a positive torture to her. Then there were thechildren! Troublesome little riddles Miss Unity often found them, impossible to understand; and it is a question whether she or they werethe more uncomfortable when they were together. For she had an idea, gathered from some dim recollection of the past, that children neededconstant correction and reproof; and she felt sure Mary Hawthornneglected her duty in this respect, and was over-indulgent. So, being amost conscientious woman, she tried to supply this shortcoming, and theresult was not a happy one. 

She was ill at ease with all the children, but of Dickie she was fairlyfrightened, for Dickie had disgraced herself at her very firstintroduction. Seeing Miss Unity's grim face framed by the noddingbonnet bending down to kiss her, the child looked up and said with asweet smile, "Ugly lady!"

There was no disguising it, for Dickie's utterance had the clearness ofa bell, and a horrified silence fell on the assembly. 

"Don't be naughty, Dickie, " said Mrs Hawthorn reprovingly; "say, `Howdo you do?' directly. "

But Miss Unity had straightened herself up and turned away with an oddlook in her eyes. 

"Don't scold the child, Mary, " she said; "she's not naughty, she's onlyhonest. "

From that time Pennie never considered Miss Unity quite ugly, and indeedher features were not so much ugly as rugged and immovable. When herfeelings were stirred she was not ugly at all; for they were good, kindfeelings, and made her whole face look pleasant. So little happened inher life, however, that they generally remained shut up as in a sort ofprison, and were seldom called forth; people, therefore, who did notknow her often thought her cross. But Miss Unity was not cross--she wasonly lonely and dull because she had so little to love. Nothing couldhave passed off better than the Hawthorns' visit on this particularoccasion, and indeed when David was with her Mrs Hawthorn never fearedthe unlucky accidents which were apt to occur with the other children. He was so deliberate and careful by nature that there was no risk of hisknocking down the china, or treading on the cat's tail, or on the trainof Miss Unity's gown. Nancy did all these things frequently, howeverhard she tried to be good, and was, besides, very restive under reproofand ready to answer pertly. 

On the whole Miss Unity liked to have the grave little David with herbetter than the other children, though she sometimes felt when she foundhis solemn and disapproving gaze fixed upon her. David on his side hadhis opinions, though he said little, and he had long ago made up hismind that he did not like Miss Unity at all. So he was sorry to find, when the day came for leaving Nearminster, that she was going back toEasney with them instead of making her visit later in the year. Itwould not be nearly as pleasant as driving alone with his father andmother, he thought; for now he could not ask questions on the way, unless he talked to Andrew, and he was always so silent. 

When the wagonette came round there were so many little packagesbelonging to Miss Unity that it was quite difficult to stow them away, and as fast as that was done Bridget brought out more. Not that therewas much luggage altogether, but it consisted in such a number ofoddly-shaped parcels and small boxes that it was both puzzling anddistracting to know where to put them. Mr Hawthorn was busy for a goodquarter of an hour disposing of Miss Unity's property; while Davidlooked on, keenly interested, and full of faith in his father'scapacity. 

"That's all, I think, " said Mr Hawthorn triumphantly at last, as heemerged from the depths of the wagonette, and surveyed his labours;"there's not much room left for us, certainly, but I daresay we shallmanage. "

As he spoke Bridget came out of the house carrying a waterproof bundle, bristling with umbrellas and parasols. 

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed the vicar in a discouraged voice, "is that togo? Does your mistress want all those umbrellas?"

"She wouldn't like to go without 'em, sir, " replied Bridget. 

"Where _shall_ you put them, father?" asked David in quite an excitedmanner. 

That was indeed a question, but it was at length solved by Mr Hawthorndeciding to walk, and the wagonette was ready to proceed, David sittingin front as usual. After several efforts to make Andrew talk he fellback for amusement on his own thoughts, and in recognising all thewell-known objects they passed on the road. Presently they came to acertain little grey cottage, and then he knew they were halfway home. It had honeysuckle growing over the porch, and a row of bee-hives in thegarden, which was generally bright and gay with flowers; just now, however, it all looked withered and unattractive, except that on onetree there still hung some very red apples, though it was the beginningof November. That reminded David of Antony, who had a great weaknessfor apples. He smiled to himself, and felt glad that he should see hispet so soon. 

After this cottage there was a long steep hill to go up, and here Rubythe horse always waited for Andrew to get down and walk. David mightreally drive now, and even flick at Ruby's fat sides with the whip, which was pleasant, but did not make the least difference to his speed. 

When they had reached the top of the hill, the little square tower ofEasney church could just be seen, and the chimneys of the vicarage, butthough they looked near, there were still nearly four miles to drive. Now it was all downhill, and Ruby pounded along at an even trot, whichseemed to make a sort of accompaniment to David's thoughts--

 To market, to market, To buy a fat pig; Home again, home again, Jig a jig, jig!

it said, over and over again. "I wonder whether Antony will know me!"thought David. 

Five minutes more and the carriage stopped at the white gate, and Andrewgetting down to open it, David drove in a masterly manner up to thefront door, where Ambrose, Pennie, and Dickie were assembled to welcomethe return. Amidst the bustle which followed, while Miss Unity'sbelongings were being unpacked and carried indoors under the watchfuleye of their owner, David slipped down from his perch and hurried awaytowards the kitchen-garden; Antony lived there, and he would go and seehim first of all. As he ran along the narrow path, bordered withfruit-trees, he stooped to pick up a wrinkled red apple which hadfallen. "He's _so_ fond of 'em!" thought he, as he put it in hispocket. There was the sty, and now he should soon hear the low grunt sodelightful to his ears. All was silent, however, and he went on moreslowly, with a slight feeling of dread, for somehow the sty had astrangely empty look about it. "He's eating, " said David encouraginglyto himself; but even as he said so he stood still, quite afraid to goany nearer. Then he called gently: "Choug, choug, choug. " No sign oflife. No inquiring black snout peering over the edge. Unable to bearthe uncertainty, he rushed forward and looked into the sty. 

Empty! Yes, quite empty--Antony's straw bed was there, and the remainsof some food in his trough, but no Antony!

David stood staring at the desolate dwelling for some minutes, hardlyable to believe his eyes; then with a thrill of hope he said to himself:

"He must have got out. He must be somewhere in the garden;" and heturned round to go and search for him. As he did so, he saw a smalldejected figure coming down the path towards him with downcast face andlagging step. It was Nancy--grief in every feature, and guilt in everymovement. One glance was enough for David; he understood it all now, and he flushed angrily, and turned his back upon her, clenching hisfists tightly. She came slowly up and stood close to him; she wascrying. 

"Oh, Davie, " she said. "I am so sorry. "

"Where's Antony?" said David in a muffled voice without looking at her. 

"He's gone. "

"Where?"

"Back to the farm. "

"Why?"

"Andrew took him. He found him eating the spinach, and he said he mustobey orders. And I asked Miss Grey to stop him, and she said shecouldn't interfere--"

Nancy stopped and gasped. 

"Then, " said David sternly, "you didn't fasten his gate. "

"Oh, I _thought_ I did, " said Nancy, beginning to sob again in anagonised manner; "but I forgot to put that stick through the staple, andhe must have pushed it open. I am so sorry. "

"That's no good at all, " said David with a trembling lip; "Antony'sgone. "

"I'll give you anything of mine to make up, " said Nancy eagerly--"mybantam hen, or my dormouse, or my white kitten. "

"I don't want anything of yours, " said David, "I want my own pig. "

Nancy was silent, except for some little convulsive sobs. Presently shemade a last effort. 

"Please, Davie, " she said humbly, "won't you forgive me? I _am_ sosorry. "

David turned round. His face was very red, but he spoke slowly andquietly:

"No, " he said, "I won't forgive you. I never mean to. You promised totake care of Antony, and you haven't. You're _very_ wicked. "

Then he went away and left Nancy in floods of tears by the empty sty. 

Everyone sympathised with David at first, and was sorry for his loss, though perhaps no one quite understood what a great one it was to him;but there was another feeling mingled with his grief for Antony, whichwas even stronger, and that was anger towards his sister. David had adeep sense of justice, and it seemed hard to him that he alone shouldsuffer for Nancy's wrong-doing. When he saw her after a time as merryand gay as though Antony had never existed, he felt as hard as stone, and would neither speak to her nor join in any game in which she tookpart. She ought to be punished, he thought, and made to feel as unhappyas he did. Poor little Davie! he was very miserable in those days, andsadly changed, for his once loving heart was torn with grief and anger, which are both hard to bear, but anger far the worse of the two. So hemoped about mournfully alone, and no one took much notice of him, forpeople got tired of trying to comfort him and persuade him to forgive. Even his mother was unsuccessful:

"You ought to forgive and forget, Davie, " said she. 

"I _can't_ forget Antony, " replied David, "and I don't want to forgiveNancy. I'd rather _not_. "

"But she would be the first to forget any wrong thing you did to her, "continued Mrs Hawthorn. 

"Nancy _always_ forgets, " said David, "wrong things and right thingstoo. "

Mrs Hawthorn was silenced, for this was strictly true. 

"I don't know what to make of David, " she said to her husbandafterwards. "I would ask you to let him have the pig back, but I don'tthink he ought to have it while he shows this unforgiving spirit. "

"Let him alone, " said the vicar. "Leave it to time. "

So David was left alone; but time went on and did not seem to soften hisfeelings in the least, and this was at last brought about by a veryunexpected person. 

One morning Miss Unity, who had now been staying some time at Easney, went out to take a little air in the garden: it was rather damp underfoot, for it had rained in the night, but now the sun shone brightly, and she stepped forth, well protected by over-shoes and thick shawl, with the intention of taking exercise for exactly a quarter of an hour. 

From the direction of the Wilderness she heard shouts and laughter whichwarned her of the children's whereabouts, and she turned at once intoanother path which led to the kitchen-garden. 

"How Mary does let those children run wild!" she said to herself, "andPennie getting a great girl, too. As for Miss Grey, she's a perfectcipher, and doesn't look after them a bit. If they were _my_children--"

But here Miss Unity's reflections were checked. Lifting her eyes shesaw at the end of the narrow path a low shed which looked like apig-sty; by it was a plank, raised at each end on a stone, so as to forma rough bench, and on this there crouched a small disconsolate figure. It was bent nearly double, and had its face buried in its hands, so thatonly a rough shock of very light hair was visible; but though she couldnot see any features Miss Unity knew at once that it was David mourningfor his pig. 

Her first impulse was to turn round and go quickly away, for she hadgathered from what she had heard of the affair that he was a verynaughty, sulky little boy; as she looked, however, she saw by a slightheaving movement of the shoulder that he was crying quietly, and herheart was stirred with sudden pity:

"It's a real grief to the child, that's evident, though it's only abouta pig, " she said to herself, and, yielding to another impulse, shewalked on towards him instead of going back. But after all it was adifficult situation when she got close to him, for she did not know whatto say, although she felt an increasing desire to give him comfort. Atany rate it was useless to stand there in silence looking at that littlebowed head; would it be better to sit down by him, perhaps? shewondered, casting a doubtful eye on the decidedly dirty plank. MissUnity was delicately particular, and her whole soul recoiled from dirtand dust, so it was really with heroic resolution that she suddenlyfolded her nice grey gown closely about her and took a seat, stifflyerect, by David's side. When there she felt impelled to pat his headgently with two long fingers, and say softly: "Poor little boy!"

David had watched all Miss Unity's movements narrowly through a chink inhis fingers, though he kept his face closely hidden, and when she satdown beside him he was so surprised that he stopped crying. He wonderedwhat she was going to say. She would scold him, of course, everyonescolded him now, and he set his teeth sullenly and prepared to defendhimself. Then the unexpected kind words fell on his ear, and he couldnot help bursting into fresh tears, and sobbed as if his heart wouldbreak. It was partly for Antony, partly for Nancy, partly for himself, that he was crying; he was so tired of being naughty, and he wanted somuch to be made good again. 

Miss Unity was sadly perplexed by the result of her efforts; she seemedto have made matters worse instead of better, and she sat for someminutes in silent dismay by the side of the sobbing David. But havingbegun she felt she must go on, and taking advantage of a little lull shepresently said:

"Was it a nice pig, David?"

"B-b-beautiful. "

"And you miss it?"

This was so evident a fact that David seemed to think it needed noanswer, and Miss Unity continued:

"It's sad to lose anything we know and love. Very hard to bear. It'squite natural and right to be sorry. "

David took his hands away from his face, which was curiously marked bydirty fingers and tears, and lifted a pair of blurred blue eyes to MissUnity. He was listening, and she felt encouraged to proceed:

"But though it's hard, there is something else that is much worse; doyou know what that is?"

"No, " said David. 

"To be angry with anyone we love, " said Miss Unity solemnly; "that is avery bitter feeling, and hurts us very much. All the while we have itin our hearts we can't be happy, because anger and love are fightingtogether. "

David's eyes grew rounder and larger. Could this really be Miss Unity?He was deeply impressed. 

"And they fight, " she went on, "until one is killed. Very often love isstronger, but sometimes it is anger that conquers, and then sad thingsfollow. In this way, David, much evil has happened in the world fromtime to time. "

Miss Unity paused. She felt that she was getting on very well, and wassurprised at her own success, for David had stopped crying, and wasstaring at her with absorbed interest. She went on:

"When once we let anger drive love quite out of our hearts all manner ofbad things enter; but we don't often succeed in doing it, because loveis so great and strong. Do you know why you're so unhappy just now?"

"Because I've lost Antony, " said David at once. 

"Yes, that is one reason, but there is a bigger one. It is because youare angry with Nancy. "

David hung his head. 

"You're fond of Nancy, Davie? I've heard your mother say that you andshe are favourite playfellows. "

"No, " said David, "not now. She promised to shut Antony's gate--and sheforgot. "

Miss Unity stopped a moment to think; then she said:

"Would you be happier, David, if Nancy were to be punished?"

"Yes. "

"Why?"

"Because it would be fair. "

"Well--you know it's Nancy's birthday soon, and she has to choose whatpresent I shall give her?"

David nodded his head. He knew it very well; and not only that, he knewwhat Nancy was going to choose, for she had confided to him as a greatsecret that her heart was set on a kitchen-range for the doll's house. 

"When she chooses, would you like me to say: `No, Nancy. Because youwere careless and forgot David's pig I shall give you nothing thisyear?'"

Miss Unity waited eagerly for the answer. How she hoped it would be"No. " She had not been so anxious for anything for a long time. 

But David raised his head, gazed at her calmly, and said quitedistinctly:

"Yes. "

Miss Unity sighed as she got up from her lowly seat. 

"Very well, David, " she said, "it shall be so; but I am sorry you willnot forgive your sister. "

She went sadly back to the house, thinking to herself:

"Of course _I_ could not persuade where others have failed. It wasfoolish to try. I have no influence with children. I ought to haveremembered that. "

But she was mistaken. That night when she was dressing for dinner therewas a little knock at her door, very low down as though from somebody ofshort stature. She opened it, and there was David. 

"If you please, " he said, "I've come to say that I'd rather you gaveNancy the kitchen-range--I mean, whatever she chooses for her birthday. "

"Then you've forgiven her?" asked Miss Unity excitedly. 

"Yes, " said David. "Good-night, because it's bed-time. Nurse said Iwas to go back directly. "

He held out his hand, and also raised a pursed-up mouth towards MissUnity, which meant that he wished to be kissed. 

Feeling the honour deeply she stooped and kissed him, and her eyesfollowed the little square figure wistfully as it trotted down thepassage to the nursery; when it disappeared she turned into her roomagain with a warmer feeling about her heart than she had known for manya day. 

Three days after this was Nancy's birthday, and although thekitchen-range did not appear she hopped and skipped and looked sobrimful of delight that David could not help asking: "What are you sopleased about?"

"Come with me, " was Nancy's reply, "and I'll show you Miss Unity'sbirthday present. It's the best of all. "

She hurried David into the garden, and up to the pig-sty--empty nolonger! There was Antony as lively as ever, and ready to greet hismaster with a cheerful grunt!

"There, " she said, in the intervals of a dance of triumph, "I and Andrewfetched him home. Father said we might. I asked Miss Unity to ask himto have him back for a birthday present. And she did. She was so kind;and I don't think she's ugly now at all. "

Nor did David; and he never said again that the thing he liked least atNearminster was Miss Unity, for he had a long memory for benefits aswell as for injuries. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

ETHELWYN. 

"Oh, dear me!" said Pennie, looking at herself in the glass over thenursery mantel-shelf; "it _is_ ugly, and _so_ uncomfortable. I wish Ineedn't wear it. "

"It, " was Pennie's new winter bonnet, and certainly it was not verybecoming; it was made of black plush with a very deep brim, out of whichher little pointed face peered mournfully, and seemed almost swallowedup. There was one exactly like it for Nancy, and the bonnets had justcome from Miss Griggs, the milliner at Nearminster, where they had beenordered a week ago. "Do you come and try yours on, Miss Pennie, " saidNurse as she unpacked them, "there's no getting hold of Miss Nancy. "

So Pennie put it on with a little secret hope that it might be aprettier bonnet than the last; she looked in the glass, and thenfollowed the exclamation with which this chapter begins. 

"I don't see anything amiss with it, " said Nurse, who stood with herhead on one side, and the other bonnet perched on her hand. "They're asalike as two pins, " she added, twirling it round admiringly. 

"They're both just as ugly as they can be, " said Pennie mournfully; "butmine's sure to look worse than Nancy's--it always does. And they never_will_ stay on, " she added in a still more dejected voice, "unless Ikeep on catching at the strings in front with my chin. "

"Oh, well, Miss Pennie, " said Nurse, "your head will grow to it, and youought to be thankful to have such a nice warm bonnet. How would youlike to go about with just a shawl over your head, like them gypsies wesaw the other day?"

"_Very much indeed_, " said Pennie, who had now taken off the bonnet andwas looking at it ruefully. "There was one gypsy who had a redhandkerchief, which looked much prettier than this ugly old thing. "

"You oughtn't to mind how things look, " returned Nurse. "You think toomuch of outsides, Miss Pennie. "

"But the outside of a bonnet is the only part that matters, " repliedPennie. 

She was quite prepared to continue the subject, but this was not thecase with Nurse. 

"I've no time for argufying, miss, " she said as she put the bonnetscarefully back into their boxes. "I'm sure my mistress will like themvery much. They're just as she ordered them. " And so the subject wasdismissed, and Pennie felt that she was again a victim. 

For, as Nurse had said, Pennie _did_ care a great deal about outsides, and she thought it hard sometimes that she and Nancy must always bedressed alike, for the same things did not suit them at all. Probablythis very bonnet which was such a trial to Pennie would be a suitableframe for Nancy's round rosy face, and look quite nice. It wascertainly hard. Pennie loved all beautiful things, from the flowers inthe garden and fields to the yellow curls on Cicely's ruffled head, andit often troubled her to feel that with pretty things all round her shedid not look pretty herself. So the winter bonnet cast quite a gloom onher for the moment, and although it may seem a small trial to sensiblepeople it was a large one to Pennie. How often she had sighed over thestraight little serge frocks which she and Nancy always wore, andsecretly longed for brighter colours and more flowing lines, and nowthis ugly dark bonnet had come to make things worse. It would make herfeel like a blot in a fair white copybook, to walk about in it when thebeautiful clean snow covered the earth. What a pity that everything inthe world was not pretty!

Pennie's whole soul went out towards beauty, and anyone with a prettyface might be sure of her loving worship and admiration. "All is notgold that glitters, Miss Pennie, " Nurse would say, or, "Handsome is thathandsome does;" but it made no impression at all; Pennie continued tofeel sure that what looked pretty _must_ be good, and that a fairoutside meant perfection within. 

She stood thoughtfully watching Nurse as she put the bonnets away. It_would_ be nice to wear a scarlet handkerchief over your head like thatgypsy. Such a lovely colour! And then there would be no tormenting"caught back" feeling when the wind blew, which made it necessary topress the chin firmly on the strings to keep that miserable bonnet on atall. And besides these advantages it would be much cheaper, for she hadheard her mother say that Miss Griggs' things were _so_ expensive; "butthen, " Mrs Hawthorn had added, "the best of them is that they _do_last. " Pennie thought that decidedly "the worst" of them, for she andNancy would have to wear those bonnets for at least two winters beforethey showed any signs of wearing out--indeed, they had been made ratherlarge in the head on purpose. 

But it was of no use to think about it any more now, so with a littlesigh she turned away and went back to her dolls, prepared to treat theugly one, Jemima, with even more than usual severity. Jemima was theoldest doll of the lot, made of a sort of papier-mache; her hair waspainted black and arranged in short fat curls; her face, from frequentwashing and punishment, had become of a leaden hue, and was full ofdents and bruises; her nose was quite flat, and she had lost one arm; inher best days she had been plain, but she was now hideous. And nowonder! Poor Jemima had been through enough trials to mar the finestbeauty. She had been the victim at so many scenes of torture andexecutions that there was scarcely a noted sufferer in the whole of theHistory of England whom she had not, at some time or other, represented. To be burnt alive was quite a common thing to Jemima, and sometimes, descending from the position of martyr to that of criminal, she washanged as a murderer! In an unusually bloodthirsty moment Ambrose hadonce suggested _really_ putting out her eyes with red-hotgauffering-irons, but this was overruled, and Jemima's eyes, pale blueand quite expressionless, continued to stare placidly on the stake, gibbet, or block, as the case might be. 

It was a relief to Pennie just now to cuff and scold Jemima, and to petthe Lady Dulcibella, who was a wax doll with a lovely pink and whitecomplexion, and real golden hair and eyelashes. She had everythingbefitting a doll of her station and appearance--a comfortable bed withwhite curtains, an arm-chair with a chintz cushion, private brushes andcombs, and an elegant travelling trunk. Her life altogether was acontrast to Jemima's, who never went to bed at all, and had nopossessions except one ragged old red dress; nevertheless, it ispossible that Dulcibella with all her elegance would have been the moreeasily spared of the two. 

Nancy soon joined Pennie, and the little girls became so absorbed intheir play that they were still busy when tea-time came; they hurrieddown-stairs to the schoolroom, for Miss Grey was particular aboutpunctuality, and found that David and Ambrose were already seated, eachwith his own special mug at his side; mother was in the room too, talking to Miss Grey about an open letter which she held in her hand. 

Mrs Hawthorn always paid the children a visit at schoolroom tea, andthey generally had something wonderful to tell her saved up for thisoccasion--things which had occurred during their walk, or perhapsexciting details about the various pet animals. Sometimes she in herturn had news for them, and when Pennie saw the open letter she changedher intention of saying that the bonnets had come home, and waitedquietly. Perhaps mother had something interesting to tell. 

Pennie was right, for Mrs Hawthorn presently made an announcement ofsuch a startling character that the new bonnets sank at once intoinsignificance. 

"Children, " she said, "a little girl is coming to stay with you. "

Now such a thing had never happened before, and it was so astonishingthat they all stared at their mother in silence with half-uplifted mugs, and slices of bread and butter in their hands. Then all at once theybegan to pour forth a torrent of questions:-- What is she like? Wheredoes she live? How old is she? What is her name?

Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand. 

"One at a time, " she said. "If you will be quiet you shall hear allabout it. This little girl lives in London. Her mother is a very oldfriend of mine, though you have never seen her, and I have asked her tolet her little daughter come here for a visit. She is about Pennie'sage, and her name is Ethelwyn. "

"What a long one!" said Nancy; "must we call her all of it?"

"I think it's a beautiful name, " said Pennie. "Almost as good as`Dulcibella. ' And then we might call her `Ethel, ' or `Winnie, ' they'reboth pretty. "

"Well, you can settle that afterwards, " said their mother. "You mustwait and see what she likes best to be called. And that reminds me tosay that I hope my children will be hospitable to their guest. Do youknow what that means?"

"I know, " said Ambrose, gulping a piece of bread and butter very quicklyin his haste to be first. "Let _me_ say. It means taking care ofpeople when they're ill. "

"Not quite right, " said Mrs Hawthorn. "You are thinking of `hospital, 'which is a different thing, though both words come from the same idea;can you tell, Pennie?"

"It means being kind, doesn't it?" said Pennie. 

"It means something more than that. What do you say, Davie?"

"Always to give her the biggest piece, " said David, with his eyesthoughtfully fixed on the pile of bread and butter. 

Nancy was then appealed to, but she always refused to apply her mind outof lesson hours, and only shook her head. 

"Well, " said Mrs Hawthorn, "I think Davie's explanation is about thebest, for hospitality does mean giving our friends the best we have. But it means something more, for you might give Ethelwyn the biggestpiece of everything, and yet she might not enjoy her visit at all. Butif you try to make her happy in the way _she likes best_, and considerher amusement and comfort before your own, you will be hospitable, and Ishall be very pleased with you all. I expect, however, she will bechiefly Pennie and Nancy's companion, because, as she has no brothersand sisters, she may not care about the games you all play together. She has not been used to boys, and might find them a little rough andnoisy. "

Pennie drew herself up a little. It would be rather nice to have afriend of her very own, and already she saw herself Ethelwyn's solesupport and adviser. 

The children continued to ask questions until there was nothing else tobe learnt about Ethelwyn, and she was made the subject of conversationafter their mother left the room, and until tea was over. They madevarious plans for the amusement of the expected guest. 

"I can show her my pig, " said David. 

"And the rabbits and the jackdaw and the owl, " added Ambrose. 

"Oh, I don't suppose she'll care at all about such common things as pigsand rabbits, " said Pennie rather scornfully, for the very name ofEthelwyn had a sort of superior sound. 

"Then she'll be a stupid, " said Ambrose. 

"Owdacious, " added David. 

"Davie, " said Miss Grey, "where did you hear that word?"

"Andrew says it, " answered David triumphantly; "he says Antony growsowdacious. "

A lively argument followed, for David could not be brought to understandfor some time why Andrew's expressions were not equally fit for littleboys and gardeners. Ethelwyn was for the time forgotten by everyoneexcept Pennie, who continued to think about her all that evening. Indeed, for days afterwards her mind was full of nothing else; shewondered what she was like, and how she would talk, and she had Ethelwynso much on the brain that she could not keep her out of her head even inlesson time. She came floating across the pages of the History ofEngland while Pennie was reading aloud, and caused her to make strangemistakes in the names of the Saxon kings. 

"Ethelbert, not Ethelwyn, Pennie, " Miss Grey would say for the twentiethtime, and then with a little impatient shake Pennie would wake up fromher day-dreams, and try to fix her mind on the matter in hand. But itwas really difficult, for those kings seemed to follow each other sofast, and to do so much the same things, and even to have names so muchalike, that it was almost impossible to have clear ideas about them. Pennie's attention soon wandered away again to a more attractivesubject: Ethelwyn! it was certainly a nice name to have, and seemed tomean all sorts of interesting things; how small and poor the name ofPennie sounded after it! shortened to Pen, as it was sometimes, it wasworse still. No doubt Ethelwyn would be pretty. She would have longyellow hair, Pennie decided, not plaited up in a pig-tail like her ownand Nancy's, but falling over her shoulders in a nice fluffy way likethe Lady Dulcibella's. Pennie often felt sorry that there was nofluffiness at all about her hair, or that of her brothers and sisters;their heads all looked so neat and tight, and indeed they could not dootherwise under Nurse's vigorous treatment, for she went on theprinciple that anything rough was untidy. Even Dickie's hair, whichwanted to curl, was sternly checked, and kept closely cropped like aboy's; it was only Cicely's that was allowed at present to do as itliked and wave about in soft little rings of gold. 

Pennie made her plans and thought her thoughts, and often went to bedwith Ethelwyn's imaginary figure so strongly before her that she hadwonderful dreams. Ethelwyn took the shape of the "Fair One with theGolden Locks, " in the fairy book, and stood before her with yellow hairquite down to her feet--beautiful, gracious, smiling. Even in thedaylight Pennie could not quite get rid of the idea, and so, long beforeshe had seen her, the name of Ethelwyn came to mean, in her romanticlittle mind, everything that was lovely and desirable. 

And at last Ethelwyn came. It was an exciting moment, for the childrenwere so unused to strangers that they were prepared to look upon theirvisitor with deep curiosity. They were nevertheless shy, and it hadoccurred to David and Nancy that the cupboard under the stairs would bea favourable position from which to take cautious observations when shearrived. 

Ambrose, therefore, and Pennie were the only two ready to receive theirguest, for Dickie was busy with her own affairs in the nursery; theywaited in the schoolroom with nervous impatience, and presently thedrawing-room bell rang twice, which was always a signal that thechildren were wanted. 

"That's for us, " said Pennie. "Come, Ambrose. "

But Ambrose held back. "_You_ go, " he said. "Mother doesn't want me. "

And Pennie, after trying a few persuasions, was obliged to go alone. But when she got to the door and heard voices inside the room she foundit difficult to go in, and stood on the mat for some minutes before shecould make up her mind to turn the handle. She looked down at herpinafore and saw that it was a good deal crumpled, and an unluckyink-spot stared at her like a little black eye in the very middle of it;surely, too, Nurse had drawn back her hair more tightly than usual fromher face. Altogether she felt unequal to meeting the unknown butelegant Ethelwyn. 

It must be done, however, and at last she turned the handle quickly andwent into the room. Mrs Hawthorn was sitting by the fire, and in frontof her stood a little girl. Her hair _was_ fluffy and yellow, just asPennie had thought, and hung down her back in nice waves escaping fromthe prettiest possible quilted bonnet (how different from that blackplush one upstairs!) This was dark blue like her dress, and she carrieda dear little quilted muff to match. Her features were neat andstraight, and her large violet eyes had long lashes curling upwards;there was really quite a striking likeness between her face and the LadyDulcibella's, except that the cheeks of the latter were bright pink, andEthelwyn was delicately pale. 

Pennie noticed all this as she advanced slowly up the room, deeplyconscious of the crumpled pinafore and the ink-spot. 

"This is Pennie, " said her mother, and Ethelwyn immediately held out herhand, and said, "How do you do?" in rather a prim voice and without anyshyness at all. 

"Now I shall give Ethelwyn into your care, Pennie, " continued MrsHawthorn. "You may take her into the garden and show her the pets, orif she likes it better you may go upstairs and play with your dolls. Make her as happy as you can, and I shall see you all again attea-time. "

The two little girls left the room together, and Pennie led the waysilently to the garden, giving furtive glances now and then at hervisitor. She felt sure that Ethelwyn would be surprised and pleased, because mother had said that in London people seldom had gardens; buther companion made no remark at all, and Pennie put the question whichhad been a good deal on her mind:

"What do you like to be called?"

"My name's Ethelwyn, " said the little girl. 

"Yes, I know, " said Pennie. "Mother told us. But I mean, what are youcalled for short?"

"I'm _always_ called Ethelwyn. Father and mother don't approve of namesbeing shortened. "

"Oh!" said Pennie deeply impressed. Then feeling it necessary to assertherself, she added: "_My_ name's Penelope Mary Hawthorn; but I'm alwayscalled Pennie, and sometimes the children call me Pen. "

Ethelwyn made no answer; she was attentively observing Pennie's blueserge frock, and presently asked:

"What's your best dress?"

"It's the same as this, " said Pennie, looking down at it meekly, "onlynewer. "

"Mine's velveteen, " said Ethelwyn, "the new shade, you know--a sort ofmouse colour. Nurse says I look like a picture in it. Do you alwayswear pinafores?"

Before Pennie had time to answer they had arrived at the Wilderness, andwere now joined by Nancy and the two boys, who came shyly forward toshake hands. 

"These are our gardens, " said Pennie, doing the honours of theWilderness; "that's mine, and that's Dickie's, and the well belongs tothe others. They dug it themselves. "

Ethelwyn looked round, with her little pointed nose held rather high inthe air:

"Why don't you keep it neater?" she said. "What an untidy place!"

It was a blow to Pennie to hear this, but the truth of it struck herforcibly, and she now saw for the first time that to a stranger theWilderness might not be very attractive. There were, of course, noflowers now, and Dickie had tumbled a barrowful of leaves on to themiddle of Pennie's border, which was further adorned by a heap of oystershells, with which David intended some day to build a grotto. It lookedmore like a rubbish heap than a garden, and the close neighbourhood ofthe well did not improve it. There was only one cheerful object in theWilderness just now, and that was a little monthly rose-bush in Dickie'splot of ground, which, in spite of most unfavourable circumstances, boretwo bright pink blossoms. 

After glancing scornfully round, Ethelwyn stooped and stretched out herhand to pick the roses; but Pennie caught hold of her dress in alarm. 

"Oh, you mustn't, " she cried; "they're Dickie's. "

Ethelwyn looked up astonished. 

"Who's Dickie?" she said; "what does he want them for?"

"It isn't `he, ' it's `she, '" said Nancy; "she's the youngest but one, and she's saving them for mother's birthday. "

"Wouldn't it be a joke, " said Ethelwyn laughing, "to pick them? She'dnever know where they'd gone. "

Pennie could not see anything funny in this idea at all, but sheremembered what Mrs Hawthorn had said about making their guest happy inher own way, and she felt obliged to answer:

"If you want to do it _very_ much you may. "

She was sorry to see that Ethelwyn immediately pulled both the littleroses off the tree, but tried to excuse her in her own mind. She didnot understand, perhaps, how much Dickie wanted them. Such a prettygraceful creature as Ethelwyn _could_ not do anything purposely unkind. 

Nancy, however, not the least dazzled by Ethelwyn's appearance, wasboiling with anger. 

"I call that--" she began; but Pennie nudged her violently andwhispered: "She's a visitor, " and the outspoken opinion was checked. 

David, too, turned the general attention another way just then; he camegravely up to Ethelwyn and inquired:

"Do you like animals?"

"Animals?" said Ethelwyn; "oh, you mean pets. Yes, I like themsometimes. "

"Then I'll show you my pig, " said David. 

"A pig!" exclaimed Ethelwyn in rather a squeaky voice of surprise; "whata nasty, dirty thing to have for a pet! Don't you mean _pug_?"

"No, I don't, " said David; "I mean pig. "

"But it's not a common sort of pig at all, " put in Pennie hastily, forshe saw her brother's face getting crimson with anger, "and it'sbeautifully clean and clever. It shakes hands. "

"We've got lots of animals, " added Ambrose, "only you must come round tothe barn to see them. "

"Well, " said Ethelwyn as the children all moved away, David rathersulkily, with hands in his pockets, "I _never_ heard of a pig as a pet. I don't believe it's a proper sort of pet at all. Now, _I've_ got alittle tiny toy terrier at home, and he has a collar with silver bells. I _had_ a canary, but Nurse left its cage on the window-ledge in a highwind, and it blew right down on the pavement from the very tip-top ofthe house, so it died. "

"Oh, " cried Nancy, horror-stricken, "how dreadful! Weren't you sorry?"

"Not very, " said Ethelwyn coolly. "You see I'd had it a long time, andI was rather tired of it, and I often forgot to feed it. "

The animals were now visited, and introduced by their respective owners, but without exciting much interest in Ethelwyn, for whatever she saw italways appeared that she had something far better at home. EvenAntony's lively talents failed to move her, and, though she _could_ notsay she had a nicer pig herself, she observed calmly:

"Ah, you should see the animals in the Zoological Gardens!"

And to this there was no reply. 

Then she was taken to swing in the barn, and this proved a moresuccessful entertainment, for as long as the children would swing herEthelwyn was content to be swung. When, however, Nancy boldly remarked:

"It's someone else's turn now, " she was not quite so pleased, and soonsaid in a discontented voice:

"I'm tired of this. Let's go indoors and see your playthings. "

Here it was the same thing over again, for she found something slightingto say even of the Lady Dulcibella, who was sitting prepared to receivevisitors in her best pink frock. 

"Can she talk?" asked Ethelwyn. "_My_ last new doll says `papa, '`mama. '"

Then her eye fell on the luckless Jemima, who, in her usual mean attire, was sitting in the background with her head drooping helplessly, for ithad been loosened by constant execution. 

"Oh, " cried Ethelwyn, pouncing upon her with more animation than she hadyet shown, "here's a fright!"

She held the doll up by its frock, so that its legs and one remainingarm dangled miserably in the air. 

"It's only Jemima, " said Pennie. She was vexed that Ethelwyn had seenher at all, and there was something painful in having her held up to thegeneral scorn. 

Ethelwyn began to giggle. 

"Why do you keep a guy like that?" she said. "Why don't you burn it?"

"Well, so we do, " replied Nancy, "very often. We burnt her only lastweek. "

"She was Joan of Arc, " explained Pennie. "Only make-believe, you know. Not real flames. "

Ethelwyn stared. "What odd games you play!" she said. "I never heardof them. But I know one thing: if she were mine I'd soon put her intoreal flames. "

The rest of the day went on in much the same way, and the children foundit more and more difficult to amuse their guest. It was astonishing tofind how very soon she tired of any game. "What shall we do now?" washer constant cry; and it grew so tiresome that Nancy and the boys atlast went off to play together, and left her entirely to Pennie. Andthis arrangement grew to be a settled thing, for it really was almostimpossible to play the usual games with Ethelwyn; there was no sort ofcheck on her overbearing ways, because "she was a visitor, " and must doas she liked. Now, she was a very poor hand at "making up, " and did notunderstand "Shipwrecks" or "Desert Islands" in the least; but this wouldnot have mattered if she had been willing to learn. Joined, however, tocomplete ignorance on those subjects, she had a large amount of conceit, and seemed to think she could do everything better than anyone else. For instance, if they were going to play "Shipwrecks"--"I'll becaptain, " she would exclaim at once. This had always been Ambrose'spart, and he rather prided himself on his knowledge of nautical affairs, gathered from a wide acquaintance with Captain Marryat's stories. Hegave it up politely to Ethelwyn, however, and the game began. But intwo minutes she would say: "I'm tired of being captain; I'd rather beIndian savages. " Indian savages was being performed with great spiritby Nancy, but the change was made, and the game went on, until Ethelwyncast an envious eye upon Dickie, who, with a small pail and broom, wasearnestly scrubbing at the carpet, under the impression that she was acabin-boy washing the deck of a ship. "_I_ should like to becabin-boy, " said Ethelwyn. 

But here the limit of endurance was reached, for Dickie grasped herlittle properties tightly and refused to give up office. 

"_Me_ will be cabin-boy, " was all she said when Pennie tried to persuadeher. 

"You see she's so little, " said the latter apologetically to Ethelwyn, "there's no other part she _can_ take, and she likes the pail and broomso. "

"Oh, very well, " said the latter carelessly, "then I don't care to playany more. It's a very stupid game, and only fit for boys. "

Things did not go on pleasantly at Easney just now, and the longerEthelwyn stayed the more frequent became the quarrels; she had certainlybrought strife and confusion with her, and by degrees there came to be asort of division amongst the children. Pennie and Ethelwyn walkedapart, and looked on with dignified superiority, while the others playedthe old games with rather more noise than usual. Pennie tried to thinkshe liked this, but sometimes she would look wistfully after her merrybrothers and sisters and feel half inclined to join them; the nextminute, however, when Ethelwyn tossed her head and said, "How vulgar!"she was quite ashamed of her wish. 

She wondered now how it was that she had been able to play with the boysso long without disagreement before Ethelwyn came. Of course thesequarrels were all their fault, for in Pennie's eyes Ethelwyn could do nowrong; if sometimes it was impossible to help seeing that she was greedyand selfish, and even told fibs, Pennie excused it in her own mind--indeed, these faults did not seem to her half so bad in Ethelwyn as inother people, and by degrees she thought much more lightly of them thanshe had ever done before. 

For Ethelwyn had gained a most complete influence over her, partly byher beauty, and partly by her coaxing, flattering ways. It was all sonew to Pennie; and, though she was really a sensible little girl, sheloved praise and caresses overmuch; like many wiser people, she couldnot judge anyone harshly who seemed to admire her. 

So she was Ethelwyn's closest companion in those days, and even began toimitate what she considered her elegant manners. She spoke mincingly, and took short little stiff steps in walking, and bent her headgracefully when she said, "Yes, please, " or "No, thank you. " The newplush bonnet was a misery to her, and she sighed to be beautifullydressed. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

THE CHINESE MANDARIN. 

This uncomfortable state of things had been going on for nearly afortnight, and Ethelwyn's visit was drawing to a close, when one morningthere came a letter from Miss Unity. It contained an invitation toPennie to stay three days at Nearminster, and ended with these words:

"If my god-daughter has her little friend still with her, I shall beglad to see her also, if she would like to come. "

Now it happened that this suggestion of Miss Unity's came at awonderfully convenient moment; for it had been arranged already thatEthelwyn's governess should meet her at the Nearminster station in threedays' time, and take her back to London. She would now go from MissUnity's house instead of from Easney, and Mrs Hawthorn was not at allsorry to think that the children would be separated a little earlierthan was first intended. 

So, with many cautions not to be troublesome, not to talk in bed, andnot to touch the china, she told the little girls that they were to goto Nearminster. The news quickly spread through the family, and causeda deep but secret joy to the other children, for they were very tired ofEthelwyn; nevertheless they restrained any expression of their pleasureuntil the day of departure, when they gathered at the white gate to seethe wagonette pass. The little girls were feeling even more dignifiedand grown-up than usual, for it was a great event to drive over toNearminster quite alone; therefore it was all the more trying to begreeted by a derisive song:

 "Hurray, hurray, hurray! Ethelwyn is gone away!"

screamed the shrill voices, even Dickie doing her best to swell thechorus. It was so loud that it sounded a long way up the road; andEthelwyn's favourite remark, "How very vulgar!" did not disguise it inthe least. 

The first day at Nearminster was fine and bright, and the children foundplenty to entertain them. It was all new to Ethelwyn; and to Pennie, although she knew them so well, every object had an ever fresh interest. They went into the market with Miss Unity in the morning, and watchedher buy a chicken, fresh eggs, and a cauliflower, which she carried homeherself in a brown basket. Then in the afternoon Bridget was allowed totake the children into the town that they might see the shops, and thatPennie might spend her money. For she had brought with her the contentsof her money-box, which amounted to fivepence-halfpenny, and intended tolay out this large sum in presents for everyone at home. It was ananxious as well as a difficult matter to do this to the best advantage, and she spent much time in gazing into shop-windows, her brow puckeredwith care and her purse clutched tightly in her hand. Ethelwyn'sadvice, which might have been useful under these circumstances, wasquite the reverse; for the suggestions she made were absurdly abovePennie's means, and only confusing to the mind. 

"I should buy that, " she would say, pointing to something which wasworth at least a shilling. 

Pennie soon left off listening to her, and bent her undivided attentionto the matter--how to buy seven presents with five pence halfpenny? Itmight have puzzled a wiser head than Pennie's; but at last, by dint ofmuch calculation on the fingers, she arrived with a mind at rest at thefollowing results:-- An india-rubber ball for the baby, a lead pencilfor father, a packet of pins for mother, a ball of twine for Ambrose, apaint-brush for Nancy, a pen-holder for David, and a tiny china dog forDickie. 

Ethelwyn was very impatient long before the shopping was done. 

"Oh, spend the rest in sweets, " she said over and over again in themidst of Pennie's difficulties. 

But Pennie only shook her head, and would not even look at chocolatecreams or sugar-candy until she had done her business satisfactorily. 

In the evening she amused herself by packing and unpacking the presents, and printing the name of each person on the parcels, while Miss Unityread aloud. It was not a very amusing book, and Ethelwyn, who had spentall her money on sweets and eaten more of them than was good for her, felt cross and rather sick and discontented. She yawned and fidgeted, and frowned as openly as she dared, for she was afraid of Miss Unity;and when at last bed-time came, and the little girls were alone, sheexpressed her displeasure freely. 

"I can't bear stopping here, " she said. "It's a dull, ugly old place, Ithink I wish I was back in London. "

"Well, so you will be the day after to-morrow, " replied Pennie shortly. She did not like even Ethelwyn to abuse Nearminster, and she wasbeginning to be just a little tired of hearing so much about London. 

Unfortunately for Ethelwyn's temper the next day was decidedly wet--sowet that even Miss Unity could not get out into the market, and settledherself with a basket of wools for a morning's work. Through thestreaming window-panes the grass in the Close looked very green and theCathedral very grey; the starlings were industriously pecking at theslugs, and the jackdaws chattered and darted about the tower as usual, but there was not one other living thing to be seen. "Dull, horriblydull!" Ethelwyn thought as she knelt up in the window-seat and pressedher nose against the glass. It was just as bad inside the room; therewas Miss Unity's stiff upright figure, there was her needle going in andout of her canvas, there was the red rose gradually unfolding with everystitch. There was Pennie, bent nearly double over a fairy book, withher elbows on her knees and a frown of interest on her brow. There wasnothing to see, nothing to do, no one to talk to. Ethelwyn gapedwearily. 

Then her idle glance fell on the clock. Would it _always_ be twelveo'clock that morning? And from that it passed to the Chinese mandarin, which stood close to it. He was a little fellow, with a shining baldhead and a small patch of hair on each side of it; his face, which wasbroad, had no features to speak of, and yet bore an expression of feeblegood-nature. Ethelwyn knew that the merest touch would set his headnodding in a helpless manner, and she suddenly felt a great longing todo it. But that was strictly forbidden; no one must touch the mandarinexcept Miss Unity; and, though she was generally quite willing to makehim perform, Ethelwyn did not feel inclined to ask her. She wanted todo it herself. "If she would only go out of the room, " thought thechild, "I'd make him wag his head in a minute, whatever Pennie said. "

Curiously enough Bridget appeared at the door just then with a message. 

"If you please, ma'am, " she said, "could Cook speak to you in thekitchen about the preserving?"

Now was Ethelwyn's opportunity, and she lost no time. She went quicklyup to the mantel-piece directly Miss Unity closed the door, and touchedthe mandarin gently on the head. 

"Look, Pennie! look!" she cried. 

Pennie raised her face from her book with an absent expression, whichsoon changed to horror as she saw the mandarin wagging his head withfoolish solemnity. Ethelwyn stood by delighted. 

"I'll make him go faster, " she said, and raised herself on tiptoe, forthe mantel-piece was high. 

"Don't! don't!" called out Pennie in an agony of alarm; but it was toolate. Growing bolder, Ethelwyn gave the mandarin such a sharp tap atthe back of his head that he lost his balance and toppled down on thehearth with a horrible crash. 

There he lay, his poor foolish head rolling about on the carpet, and hisbody some distance off. Hopelessly broken, a ruined mandarin, he wouldnever nod any more!

For a minute the little girls gazed speechlessly at the wreck; there wassilence in the room, except for the steady tick-tack of the clock. ThenEthelwyn turned a terrified face towards her friend. 

"Oh, Pennie!" she cried, "what _shall_ I do?" for she was really afraidof Miss Unity. 

Pennie rose, picked up the mandarin's head, and looked at itsorrowfully. 

"Mother _told_ us not to touch the china, " she said. 

"But can't we do anything?" exclaimed Ethelwyn wildly; "couldn't westick it on? He's not broken anywhere else. See, Pennie!"

She put the mandarin on the mantel-piece and carefully balanced thebroken head on his shoulders. 

"He looks as well as ever, " she said; "no one would guess he wasbroken. "

"But he _is_, " replied Pennie; "and even if he _can_ be mended I don'tsuppose he'll ever nod like he used to. "

"Are you going to _tell_ her we broke him?" asked Ethelwyn after a shortpause. 

Pennie stared. 

"_We_ didn't break him, " she said; "it was you, and _of course_ you'lltell her. "

"That I sha'n't, " said Ethelwyn sulkily; "and if you do, you'll be asneak. "

"But you'll _have_ to say, " continued Pennie, "because directly he'stouched his head will come off, and then Miss Unity will ask us. "

"Well, I shall wait till she finds out, " said Ethelwyn, "and if you tellher before I'll never never speak to you again, and I won't have you formy friend any longer. "

"I'm not going to tell, " said Pennie, drawing herself up proudly, "unless she asks me straight out. But I _know_ you ought to. "

As she spoke a step sounded in the passage, and with one bound Ethelwynregained her old place in the window-seat and turned her head away. 

Pennie remained standing by the fire, with a startled guilty look and alittle perplexed frown on her brow. 

Miss Unity's glance fell on her directly she entered; but her mind wasoccupied with the cares of preserving, and though she saw that the childlooked troubled she said nothing at first. 

"If Ethelwyn would _only_ tell, " thought Pennie, and there was suchyearning anxiety in her face as she watched Miss Unity's movements thatpresently the old lady observed it, and looked curiously at her throughher spectacles. 

"Do you want anything, Penelope?" she asked, and as she spoke shestretched out her hand to the mantel-piece, for the mandarin was atrifle out of his usual place. She moved him gently a little nearer theclock; Pennie's expression changed to one of positive agony, and themandarin's head fell immediately with a sharp "click" on to the marble!Clasping her hands, Pennie turned involuntarily towards Ethelwyn. Nowshe _must_ speak. But Ethelwyn was quite silent, and did not even turnher head. It was Miss Unity's voice which broke the stillness. 

"Child, " she said, "you have acted deceitfully. "

She fixed her eyes on Pennie, who flushed hotly, and certainly lookedthe very picture of guilt. 

_Of course_ Ethelwyn would speak now. But there was no sound from thewindow-seat. 

Pennie twisted her fingers nervously together, her chest heaved, andsomething within her said over and over again: "I didn't do it--I didn'tdo it. " She had quite a struggle to prevent the little voice frommaking itself heard, and her throat ached with the effort; but she keptit down and stood before Miss Unity in perfect silence. 

The latter had taken the broken head in her hand, and was looking at itsorrowfully. 

"I valued this image, Penelope, " she went on, "and I grieve to have itdestroyed. But I grieve far more to think you should have tried todeceive me. Perhaps I can mend the mandarin, but I can't ever forgetthat you have been dishonest--nothing can mend that. I shall think ofit whenever I see the image, and it will make me sad. "

The little voice struggled and fought in Pennie's breast to make itselfheard: "I didn't do it, I didn't do it, " it cried out wildly. With aresolute gulp she kept it down, but the effort was almost too great, andMiss Unity's grave face was too much to bear. She burst into tears andran out of the room. Then hurrying upstairs she plunged her head intothe side of the big bed where she and Ethelwyn slept together, and criedbitterly. Unjustly accused, disappointed, betrayed by her best friend--the world was a miserable place, Pennie thought, and happinessimpossible ever again. There was no one to take her part--Ethelwyn wasdeceitful and unkind; and as she remembered how she had loved andworshipped her, the tears flowed faster. How could she, _could_ shehave done it? Then looking back, she saw how wilfully she had shut hereyes to Ethelwyn's faults, plain enough to everyone else. That was allover now: she had broken something beside the mandarin that day, andthat was Pennie's belief in her. It was quite gone; she could neverlove her the least little bit again, beautiful and coaxing as she mightbe; like the mandarin, she had fallen all the lower because she had oncestood so high. 

Then Pennie's thoughts turned longingly towards home. Home, where theywere all fond of her, and knew she was not a deceitful little girl. Shewas very sorry now to remember how she had neglected her brothers andsisters lately for her fine new friend, and how proud and superior shehad felt. 

"Oh, " she cried to herself in a fervour of repentance, "I never, neverwill care so much about `outsides' again! Insides matter much themost. "

The next day passed sorrowfully for Pennie, who felt a heavy cloud ofundeserved disgrace resting upon her. Whenever she saw Miss Unityglance at the empty space on the mantel-piece, she felt as guilty asthough she really had broken the mandarin, and longed for an opportunityof justifying herself. But there was no chance of that; the day went onand Miss Unity asked no questions, and behaved just as usual to thelittle girls--only she looked rather sad and stern. 

As for Ethelwyn, when she was once quite sure that Pennie would not"tell, " her spirits rose, and she was lavish of her thanks and caresses. She pressed gifts upon her, and kisses, and was anxious to sit quiteclose to her and hold her hand; but Pennie was proof against all thisnow. It had no effect upon her at all, and she even looked forward witha feeling of positive relief to the next day, when she would saygood-bye to the once-adored Ethelwyn. 

And the time came at last; smiling, nodding, and tossing her yellowhair, Ethelwyn got into the train which was to take her away fromNearminster, and Pennie stood at Miss Unity's side on the platform, gazing seriously after her from the depths of the plush bonnet. In herhand she held almost unconsciously a large packet of sweets whichEthelwyn had thrust into it just before entering the carriage; but therewas no smile on her face, and when the train had rolled out of sight, she offered the packet to Miss Unity:

"Please, take these, " she said; "I don't want them. "

That same afternoon Mrs Hawthorn and Nancy were to drive in from Easneyand fetch Pennie home, and she stationed herself at the window a goodhour before they could possibly arrive, ready to catch the first glimpseof Ruby's white nose. When, at length, after many disappointments, caused by other horses with white noses, the wagonette really appeared, she could hardly contain herself for joy, and was obliged to hop aboutexcitedly. She was so glad to see them. There was mother, and therewas Nancy, dear old Nancy, in the black plush bonnet, which was now afar more pleasant object to Pennie than the smart blue one she hadlately envied. Now the carriage was stopping, and Nancy was loweringone stout determined leg to the step, clutching mother's umbrella and adoll in her arms. Pennie stayed no longer, but rushed down-stairs intothe hall and opened the door. It might have been a separation of years, instead of three days, from the warmth of her welcome, and Nancy saidpresently with her usual blunt directness:

"What makes you so glad to see us?"

Pennie could not explain why it was, but she felt as if she had neverreally been at home during Ethelwyn's visit to Easney, and was now goingback again--the real old Pennie once more. So she only hugged hersister for reply, and both the little girls went and sat in thewindow-seat together, while their mother and Miss Unity were talking. 

But soon Nancy's observant glance, roving round the room, fell on theempty space beside the clock. 

"Why!" she said in a loud voice of surprise, "where's the mandarin?"For she was very fond of the funny little image, and always expected tosee him wag his head when she went to Nearminster. 

Everyone heard the question, and for a minute no one answered. ThenMiss Unity said gravely:

"There has been an accident, Nancy. The mandarin is broken. I fear youwill never see him nod his head again. "

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Nancy. "Who did it?" Then turning to hersister with an alarmed face, "Was it you?"

"I _hope_ not, " said Mrs Hawthorn, leaning forward and lookingearnestly at Pennie. 

In fact everyone was looking at her just then--Miss Unity with sorrow, Mrs Hawthorn with anxiety, and Nancy with fear. How delightful it wasto be able at last to stand straight up, and answer triumphantly with aclear conscience, "No!"

At that little word everyone looked relieved except Miss Unity, and herface was graver than before as she said:

"Then, Pennie, why didn't you say so?"

"You never asked me, " said Pennie proudly. 

Miss Unity's frown relaxed a little; she bethought herself that shereally never had asked the child; she had taken it for granted, judgingonly by guilty looks. 

"If it was not you, Pennie, " she said gently, "who was it?"

"I can't tell that, " said Pennie, "only _I_ didn't. "

"Then, " exclaimed Nancy eagerly, "I expect it was that mean Ethelwyn. "

Miss Unity took off her spectacles and rubbed them nervously; then shewent up to Pennie and kissed her. 

"I am sorry I called you deceitful, Pennie, " she said, "but I am veryglad to find I was wrong. When I look at the mandarin now, I shall notso much mind his being broken, because he will remind me that you are agood and honourable child. "

Now the cloud was gone which had made Pennie's sky so dark, and all wasbright again; the drive back to Easney, which she always enjoyed, was onthis occasion simply delightful. Though the afternoon was dull andfoggy, and there was a little drizzling rain, everything looked pleasantand gay from under the big umbrella which she and Nancy shared together;the old woman at the halfway cottage smiled and nodded as they passed, as though she knew that Pennie felt specially happy, and when they gotto the white gate, there were Ambrose and David waving their caps andshouting welcome. How delightful to be at home again--without Ethelwyn!

Pennie rushed about, hugging everybody and everything she happened tomeet, animals and human beings alike, till she became quite tiresome inher excess of joy. 

"There, there, Miss Pennie, that'll do. Leave the child alone now, you'll make her quite fractious, " said Nurse, rescuing Cicely from atoo-energetic embrace. Pennie looked round for something fresh tocaress, and her eye fell on the Lady Dulcibella sitting in her arm-chairby the dolls' house. There was a satisfied simper on her pink face, asthough she waited for admiration; she held her little nose high in theair, and one could almost hear her say, "How very vulgar!" Pennieturned from her with a shudder, and picked up Jemima, who was lying onthe floor flat on her face. 

"Why, Pennie, " exclaimed Nancy, opening her eyes very wide, "you're_kissing Jemima_!"

"Well, " replied Pennie, giving the battered cheek another hearty kiss, "I feel fond of her. She's the oldest of all, and very useful I thinkshe ought to be kissed sometimes. "

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

HOW DICKIE WENT TO THE CIRCUS. 

"Has you ever seen a circus, Andoo?"

"Aye, missie. "

"When has you seen it?"

"Years ago, little missie--years ago. When I was a fool. "

"Is you fool now, Andoo?"

"Maybe, missie, maybe, " (with a grim smile); "but I surely was then. "

Dickie dismissed the subject for the moment, and turned her attention tothe little green barrow full of sticks which she had just wheeled intothe potting shed. There was a pleasant mingled scent of apples, earth, and withered leaves there; from the low rafters hung strings of onions, pieces of bass, and bunches of herbs, and in one corner there was abroken-backed chair, and Andrew's dinner upon it tied up in a bluechecked handkerchief. Bending over his pots and mould by the window inhis tall black hat, and looking as brown and dried-up as everythinground him, was Andrew himself, and Dickie stood opposite, warmly muffledup, but with a pink tinge on her small round nose from the frosty air. She was always on good terms with Andrew, and could make him talksometimes when he was silent for everyone else; so, although she veryseldom understood his answers, they held frequent conversations, whichseemed quite satisfactory on both sides. 

Her questions to-day about the circus had been called forth by the factthat she had seen, when out walking with Nurse, a strange round whitehouse in a field near the village. On asking what it was, she had beentold that it was a tent. What for? A circus. And what was a circus?A place where horses went round and round. What for? Little girlsshould not ask so many questions. Dickie felt this to beunsatisfactory, and she accordingly made further inquiries on the firstopportunity. 

She laid her dry sticks neatly in the corner, and grasping the handlesof her barrow, stood facing Andrew silently, who did not raise his gravelong face from his work; he did not look encouraging, but she was quiteused to that. 

"Did 'oo like it, Andoo?" she inquired presently with her head on oneside. 

"Well, you see, missie, " replied Andrew, "I lost the best thing I hadthere, through being a fool. "

"Tell Dickie all about it, " said Dickie in a coaxing voice. 

She turned her little barrow upside down as she spoke, sat down upon it, and placed one mittened hand on each knee. 

"Dickie kite yeddy. Begin, " she said in a cheerful and determinedmanner. 

Andrew took off his hat, and feebly scratched his head; he lookedappealingly at the little figure on the barrow as though he would gladlyhave been excused the task, but though placid, the round face was calmlyexpectant. 

"I dunno as I can call it to mind, " he said apologetically; "you see, missie, it wur a powerful time ago. A matter of twenty years, it wur. It was when I lost my little gal. "

"Where is 'oor 'ittle gal?" asked Dickie. 

"Blessed if I know, " said Andrew, shaking his head mournfully; "butwherever she be, she ain't not to call a _little_ gal now, missie. Shewur jest five years old when I lost her, an' it's twenty years ago. That'll make her a young woman of twenty-five, yer see, missie, by thistime. "

"Why did 'oo lose 'oor 'ittle gal?" pursued Dickie, avoiding thequestion of age. 

"Because I wur a fool, " replied Andrew frowning. 

"Tell Dickie, " repeated the child, to whom the "little gal" had nowbecome more interesting than the circus; "tell Dickie all about 'oor'ittle gal. "

"Well, missie, " began Andrew with a sigh, "it wur like this. After hermother died my little gal an' I lived alone. I wasn't a gardener then, I was in the cobblin' line, an' sat all day mendin' an' patchin' thefolks' boots an' shoes. Mollie wur a lovin' little thing, an' oncommonsensible in her ways. She'd sit at my feet an' make-believe to besewin' the bits of leather together, an' chatter away as merry as awren. Then when I took home a job, she'd come too an' trot by my sideholdin' me tight by one finger--a good little thing she was, an' all thefolks in the village was fond of her, but she always liked bein' with mebest--bless her 'art, that she did. "

Andrew stopped suddenly, and drew out of his pocket a red cottonhandkerchief. 

"Why did 'oo lose her?" repeated Dickie impatiently. 

"It wur like this, missie, " resumed Andrew. "One day there come acircus to the village, like as it might be that out in the field yonder, an' there was lots of 'orses, and dogs that danced, an' fine ladiesflyin' through hoops, an suchlike. Mollie, she wanted to go an' see'em. Nothing would do but I must take her. I can see her now, standin'among the scraps of leather, an' the tools, an' the old boots, an'saying so pleadin', `Do'ee take Molly, daddie, to see the gee-gees. 'So, though I had a job to finish afore that night, I said I'd take her, an' I left my work, an' put on her red boots--"

"Yed boots?" said Dickie inquiringly, looking down at her own stumpyblack goloshes. 

"Someone had giv' me a scrap of red leather, an' I'd made her a pair ofboots out of it, " said Andrew; "they didn't cost me nothin' but thework--so I put 'em on, an tied on her little bonnet an' her handkercher, an' we went off. Mollie was frighted at first to see the 'orses goround so fast, an' the people on their backs cuttin' all manner ofcapers, just as if they wur on dry ground. She hid her face in myweskit, an' wouldn't look up; but I coaxed her a bit, an' when she didshe wur rarely pleased. She clapped her hands, an' her cheeks wur redwith pleasure, an' her blue eyes bright. She wur a pretty little lass, Mollie wur. "

Andrew stopped a minute with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on Dickie, andyet as though he scarcely saw her. She hugged herself with her littlecrossed arms, and murmured confidentially, "Dickie will go to the circustoo. "

"There wur a chum of mine sittin' next, " continued Andrew, "an' by andby, when the place was gettin' very hot, an' the sawdust the horsesthrew up with their heels was fit to choke yer, he says to me, `Oldchap, ' he says, `come out an' take a glass of summat jest to wet yerwhistle. '

"`I can't, ' says I, `I've got my little gal to look after. I can'tleave her. ' But I _was_ dry, an' the thought of a glass of beer wasvery temptin', `no call to be anxious over that, ' says he; `you won't begone not five minutes, an 'ere's this lady will keep an eye on her furthat little while, I'm sure. ' `Certingly, ' says the woman sitting next, who was a stranger to me but quite respectable-lookin'. `You come tome, my dearie!' and she lifted Mollie on to her knee an' spoke kind toher, an' the child seemed satisfied; an' so I went. "

Andrew coughed hoarsely but went on again after a minute, speaking moreto himself than Dickie--who, indeed, did not understand nearly all hehad been saying. 

"When I got into the `Blue Bonnet' there wur three or four more of mychums a-settin' round the fire an' havin' a argyment. `'Ere, ' says one, `we'll hear what Andrew Martin's got to say to it. He's a tough hand atspeakin'--he'll tell us the rights on it. ' An' before I knew a'most Iwur sittin' in my usual place next the fire, with a glass of beer in myhand. I wur pleased, like a fool, to think I could speak better nor anyof 'em; an' I went on an' on, an' it wasn't till I heard the clockstrike that I thought as how I'd left my little gal alone in the circusfor a whole hour. I got up pretty quick then, for I thought she'd befrighted, but not that she could come to any harm. So I went backstraight to where I left her with the woman, an'--"

"What does 'oo stop for?" said Dickie impatiently. 

"She wur _gone_, missie!" said Andrew solemnly, spreading out his handswith a despairing gesture--"gone, an' the woman too! I've never seen mylittle gal since that day. "

"Where is 'oor 'ittle gal?" asked Dickie. 

"Lost, missie! lost!" said Andrew shaking his head mournfully. "Isha'n't never see her no more now. Parson he was very kind, an' offereda reward, an' set the perlice to work to find her. 'Twarn't all nogood. So I giv' up the cobblin' an' went about the country doin' oddjobs, because I thought I might hear summat on her; but I never did, an'after years had gone by I come ere an' settled down again. So that'show I lost my little gal, an' it's nigh twenty years ago. "

At this moment Nurse's voice was heard outside calling for Dickie, andAndrew's whole manner changed at the sound. He thrust the redhandkerchief into his pocket, clapped his hat firmly over his eyes, andbent towards his work with his usual cross frown. 

Dickie looked up with a twinkling smile as Nurse came bustling in. 

"Andoo tell Dickie pitty story, " she said. 

"Ho, indeed!" said Nurse with a sharp glance at Andrew's silent figure. "Mr Martin keeps all his conversation for you, Miss Dickie, I think; hedon't favour other people much with it. "

On their way to the house Dickie did her best to tell Nurse all she hadheard from Andrew; but it was not very clear, and left her hearer inrather a confused state of mind. There was something about a 'ittlegal, and red boots, and a circus, and something that was lost; butwhether it was the red boots that were lost, or the little girl, wasuncertain. However, Nurse held up her hands at proper intervals andexclaimed, "Only fancy!" "Gracious me!" and so on, as if she understoodperfectly; and when Dickie came to the last sentence this was really thecase, for she said in a decided voice:

"Dickie will go to the circus too. "

"No, no, " replied Nurse; "Dickie is too little to go--she will stay athome with poor Nursie and baby. "

It seemed to Dickie that they always said she was too little when shewanted to do anything nice, but if ever she cried or was naughty theysaid she was too big: "Oh, fie, Miss Dickie! a great girl like you!" Ifshe was a great girl she ought to go to the circus; and she repeatedfirmly, "Me _will_ go, " adding a remark about "Andoo's 'ittle gal, "which Nurse did not hear. 

At dinner-time there was nothing spoken of but the circus; the childrencame in from their walk quite full of it, and of all the wonderfulthings they had seen in the village. Outside the blacksmith's forgethere was a great bill pasted, which showed in bright colours thebrilliant performance of "Floretta the Flying Fairy" on horseback; therewas also a full-length portrait of Mick Murphy the celebrated clown. 

Even more exciting were the strange caravans and carts arriving in thefield where the large tent had already been put up; and Ambrose hadcaught sight of a white poodle trimmed like a lion, which he felt quitesure was one of the dancing-dogs. 

The circus was to stop two days--might the children go to-morrowafternoon?

There was a breathless silence amongst them whilst this question wasbeing decided, and mother said something to Miss Grey in French; butafter a little consultation it was finally settled that they were to go. Dickie had listened to it all, leaving her rice-pudding untasted; nowshe stretched out her short arm, and, pointing with her spoon at hermother, said:

"Dickie too. "

But Mrs Hawthorn only smiled and shook her head. 

"No, not Dickie, " she said; "she is too young to go. Dickie will stayat home with mother. "

Now the vicar was not there--if he had been he would probably have said, "Let her go;" and Dickie knew this--it had happened sometimes before. So now, although she turned down the corners of her mouth and pushed upone fat shoulder, she murmured rather defiantly:

"Dickie will ask father. "

The next day was Saturday--sermon day, and the vicar was writing busilyin his study when he heard some uncertain sounds outside, as though somelittle animal were patting the handle of the door--the cat most likely--and he paid no attention to it, until he felt a light touch on his arm. Looking down he saw that it was Dickie, who, having made her way in, stood at his elbow with eager eyes and a bright flush of excitement onher cheeks. 

"Please, father, " she said at once, "take Dickie to see the gee-gees. "

The vicar pushed back his chair a little and lifted her on to his knee. He would have liked to go on with his sermon, but he always found itimpossible to send Dickie away if she once succeeded in getting into hisstudy. 

"What does Dickie want?" he asked rather absently. 

"Please, father, take Dickie to see gee-gees, " she repeated in exactlythe same tone as at first. 

The vicar took up his pen again and made a correction in the lastsentence he had written, still keeping one arm round Dickie. But thisdivided attention did not please her; she stuck out two little straightbrown legs and said reflectively:

"Dickie got no yed boots. "

"No, no, " said the vicar with his eyes on his sermon; "Dickie's gotpretty black boots. "

"Andoo's 'ittle gal got yed boots, " pursued Dickie. 

"Andrew's little girl! Andrew hasn't got a little girl, " said herfather. 

For answer Dickie pursed-up her lips, looked up in his face, and beganto nod very often and very quickly. 

"Where is she, then?" asked the vicar. 

Dickie stopped nodding, and, imitating Andrew as well as she could, shook her head mournfully, spread out her hands, and said:

"Lost! lost!"

"You funny little thing!" said the vicar, laying down his pen andlooking at her. "I wonder what you've got into your head. Wouldn'tDickie like to run upstairs now?"

But she only swung herself backwards and forwards on his knee andrepeated very fast, as if she were saying a lesson:

"Please, father, take Dickie to see gee-gees. "

There was evidently no chance of getting rid of her unless this questionwere answered, and the sermon must really be finished. The vicar lookedgravely at her and spoke slowly and impressively:

"If Dickie is a good little girl, and will go upstairs to the nurserydirectly, and _stay there_, father will ask if she may go and see thegee-gees. "

Dickie got down and trotted away obediently, for she thought she hadgained her point; but alas later on, when mother was appealed to, shewas still quite firm on the subject--Dickie must _not_ go to the circus. The four other children were enough for Miss Grey to take care of, andNurse could not be spared--Dickie must stay at home and be a good littlegirl. 

Stay at home she must, as they were all against her; but to be a goodlittle girl was quite another thing, and I am sorry to say it was veryfar from her intention. If she were not taken to the circus she wouldbe as naughty a little girl as she possibly could. So when she had seenthe others go off, all merry and excited, leaving her in the dullnursery, she threw herself flat on her face, drummed with her feet onthe floor, and screamed. At every fresh effort which Nurse made tosoothe her the screams became louder and the feet beat more fiercely, and at last the baby began to cry too for sympathy. 

Dickie was certainly in one of her "tantrums, " and Nurse knew byexperience that solitude was the only cure, so after a while she tookCicely into the next room and shut the door. For some time Dickie wenton crying, but presently, when she found that Nurse did not come back, the sobs quieted down a little, and the small feet were still; then shelifted her face up from the floor with big tears on her cheeks andlistened. Hark! what was that funny noise? Boom boom! boom! and then asort of trampling. It was the circus in the field close by, andpresently other strange sounds reached her ear. She looked at the doorleading into the bed-room--it was fast shut, and Nurse was walking upand down, singing to the baby in a low soothing tone. Dickie got upfrom the floor and stood upright with sudden resolve shining in hereyes: she would go to the circus in spite of them all!

Fortune favours the disobedient sometimes, as well as the brave, and shemet no one to ask where she was going on her journey through thepassages; when she came to the top of the stairs she saw that the hallwas empty and silent too--only the dog Snuff lay coiled up on the matlike a rough brown ball. He had not been allowed to go to the circuseither. She went slowly down, holding by the balusters and bringingboth feet carefully on to each step; as she passed him Snuff opened onebright eye, and, watching her, saw that she went straight to thecupboard under the stairs, where the children's garden coats and hatswere kept. There they hung, five little suits, each on its own peg, andwith its own pair of goloshes on the ground beneath. Dickie's thingswere on the lowest peg, so that she might reach them easily and dressherself without troubling anyone. She struggled into the small greycoat, tied the bonnet firmly under her fat chin, and sat down on thelowest stair to put on the goloshes. Snuff got up, sniffed at her, andgave a short bark of pleasure, for he felt quite sure now that she wasgoing into the garden; but Snuff was wrong this time, as he soon foundwhen he trotted after her. Dickie had wider views, and though she wentout of the garden door, which stood open, she turned into a path leadingto the front of the house and marched straight down the drive. Throughthe white gate they went together, the little grey figure and the littlebrown one, and along the village street. It was more deserted thanusual, for everyone was either in the circus or gaping at the outside ofit, and Dickie and her companion passed on unquestioned. Soon theyreached the field where the tent and some gaily-painted caravans stood;but here came an unexpected difficulty. Which was the circus? Dickiestood still and studied the question with large round eyes, and herfinger in her mouth, Snuff looking up at her wistfully. 

Nearest to them there was a large travelling caravan, with windows andcurtains, and smoke coming out of a funnel in the roof; its sides werebrightly decorated with pictures of horses, and of wonderfully beautifulladies jumping through hoops, and there was also a picture of a funnygentleman with red patches on his face. This must be the circus, Dickiedecided at last, and she proceeded to climb up the steps in front, closely followed by Snuff. The door was a tiny bit open, and she gaveit a push and looked in. Things never turn out to be much like what wehave expected, and it was so in Dickie's case, for what she saw wasthis:

A small room with a low bed in one corner, and a black stove, and potsand dishes hanging on the walls; a cradle with a baby in it, and by thecradle a pleasant-faced young woman sitting in a wicker chair sewingbusily--so busily that it was quite a minute before she raised her eyesand saw the little grey-coated figure standing at the door with the dogat its side. 

"Well, little dear, " she said, "an' what do you want?"

Dickie murmured something, of which only the word circus was distinct. 

"Is mammy at the circus?" asked the woman smiling; but Dickie shook herhead decidedly. 

"Why, bless your little 'art, " said the woman, getting up from herchair, "I expect you've lost your folks. You come in and stay a-longerme till the circus is done, and then we'll find 'em. Jem 'ull be 'omethen. I'd go myself, but I can't leave the little un here. "

Dickie began to pout in a distressed manner when the woman took her upin her arms; this was not the circus after all. But just as she wasmaking up her mind to cry, her attention was caught by something lyingon the baby's cradle, and she held out her hand for it and said "Pitty!"It was a tiny roughly-made scarlet leather boot, rather faded and worn, but still bright enough to please Dickie's fancy. She chuckled toherself as the woman gave it her, and muttered something about "Andoo's'ittle gal;" and presently, tired with her great adventure and madedrowsy by the warmth of the little room, she dropped off to sleep on thewoman's knee, with the boot hugged tightly to her bosom. 

"Pretty dear! What a way her folks will be in!" said the woman toherself, and she laid Dickie softly on the bed and covered her with ashawl. 

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They were indeed "in a way" at the vicarage. When the circus party cameback they found everyone in a state of most dreadful anxiety, and thewhole house in confusion. Dickie was missing! Every crevice and cornerwas searched, and every place, likely and unlikely, that a child couldbe in. No Dickie. Could she possibly have gone into the village alone?It was getting dusk; there were strange people and tramps about--it wasan alarming thought. Andrew must go at once and inquire at everycottage. 

Andrew went, lantern in hand, and chin buried in his old grey comforter. "Had anyone seen Miss Dickie and the dorg that arternoon?"

No; no one had seen little missie. Always the same answer until he gotto the circus field, where knots of people still lingered talking of theperformance. Amongst these he pushed his way, making the same inquiry, sometimes, if they were strangers, pausing to give a description ofDickie and Snuff; and at last the answer came from a thin man with avery pale face, who was standing near the entrance to the tent:

"Right you are, gaffer. The little gal's all serene. My missus has gother in the caravan yonder. "

Guided by many outstretched and dirty fingers, Andrew made his way upthe steps and told his errand to the woman within. There was Dickie, sleeping as peacefully as though she were tucked up in her own littlecot; Snuff, who was curled up at her feet, jumped up and greeted Andrewwith barks of delight, but even this did not rouse her. 

"There, " said the woman, lifting the child gently, "you'd better takeher just as she is, shawl an' all; it's bitter cold outside, an' you'llwake her else. "

She laid Dickie in the long arms stretched out to receive her, and asshe did so the shawl fell back a little. 

"She's got summat in her hand, " said Andrew, glancing at the little redboot. 

"So she has, bless her, " said the woman; "you'll mind an' bring thatback with the shawl, please, mister. I set store by yonder littleboot. "

Andrew stared hard at the woman. "The vicar'll be werry grateful to youfor takin' care of the little gal, " he said. "What might be yer name, in case he should ax' me?"

"My name's Murphy, " she answered, "Molly Murphy; my husband's MrMurphy, the clown, him you see in the playbills. "

Still Andrew stood with his eyes fixed on her face; then he looked fromher to the little boot clutched so tightly in Dickie's fat fist. 

"Might you 'appen to have the feller one to this?" he asked. 

"Surely, " answered the woman. "Once they was mine, an' now I'm keeping'em against my little gal's old enough to wear 'em. "

She held out the other red boot. 

"Is there--is there, " asked Andrew hesitating, "two big `M's' wrote justinside the linin'?"

"Right you are, " answered the woman; "an' it stands fur--"

"It stands fur `Molly Martin, '" said Andrew, sitting suddenly down onthe edge of the bed with Dickie in his arms. "Oh, be joyful in theLord, all ye lands! I set every stitch in them little boots myself', an' you're the little gal I lost twenty years ago!"

It really did turn out to be Andrew's little girl, grown into a youngwoman and married to Mr Murphy the clown. The whole village wasstirred and excited by the story, and Andrew himself, roused for themoment from his usual surly silence, told it over and over again toeager audiences as he had to Dickie, only now it had a better ending. 

The children at the vicarage found it wonderfully interesting--more sothan one of Pennie's very best, and the nice part about it was that ithad been Dickie who discovered Andrew's little girl. Indeed, instead ofbeing scolded for disobedience as she deserved, Dickie was made into asort of heroine; when she was brought home sound asleep in Andrew'sarms, everyone was only anxious to hug and kiss her, because they wereso glad to get her back again, and the next day it was much the samething. The children were breathless with admiration when the history ofthe red boot was told, and Dickie's daring adventure, and Mrs Hawthornwas scarcely able to get in a word of reproof. 

"But you know, " she said, "that though we're all glad Andrew's daughteris found, still it was naughty and wilful of Dickie to go out byherself. She knew she was doing wrong, and disobeying mother. "

"But if she hadn't, " remarked David, "most likely Andrew never wouldhave found his little girl. "

"Perhaps not, " said Mrs Hawthorn; "but it might not have ended so well. Dickie might have been hurt or lost. Good things sometimes come out ofwrong things, but that does not make the wrong things right. "

Still the children could not help feeling glad that Dickie had beendisobedient--just that once. 

And then another wonderful thing to think of, was that Andrew was nowreally related to the clown, whose appearance and manners they had alladmired so much the day before. That delightful, witty person, whoseready answers and pointed pleasantries made everyone else seem dull andstupid! He was now Andrew's son-in-law. It appeared, however, thatAndrew was not so grateful for this advantage as he might have been. 

"Aren't you glad, Andrew, " asked Nancy, "that Molly married the clown?"

"Why, no, missie, " he answered, scraping his boot on the side of hisspade, "I can't say as I be. "

"Why not? He must be _such_ a nice man, and _so_ amusing. "

"Well, " said Andrew, "it's a matter of opinion, that is; it's not apurfesson as _I_ should choose, making a fool of myself for other foolsto laugh at. Not but what he do seem a sober, decent sort of chap, andfond of Molly; so it might a been worse, I'll not deny that. "

A sober, decent sort of chap! What a way to refer to a brilliantlygifted person like the clown!

"An' they've promised me one thing, " continued he as he shouldered hisspade, "an' that is that they'll not bring up the little un to the sametrade. She's to come an' live a-longer me when she's five years old, an' have some schoolin' an' be brought up decent. I don't want mygran-darter to go racin' round on 'orses an' suchlike. "

"Then you'll have a little girl to live with you, just as you used to, "said Pennie. 

"And her name will be Mollie too, " said Ambrose. 

"But you won't take her to the circus again, I should think?" addedDavid. 

"Andoo's 'ittle gal had yed boots, " said Dickie, and here theconversation finished. 

THE END.