After breakfast Miss Tredgold took her nieces for a drive. The little party were all packed into the wagonette, and then they went off. They drove for miles and miles under the trees of the Forest. Miss Tredgold told more interesting and fascinating stories of her own life than she had ever told before. The girls listened to her with the most absorbed attention. As a rule Miss Tredgold's stories carried a moral with them; but the birthday stories had no moral. Pauline waited for one. She waited with a sort of trembling dread. She expected it to intrude its sober face at each moment, but it did not put in an appearance anywhere. It stayed out of sight in the most delightful and graceful manner. Soon the girls, Pauline amongst them, forgot to look out for the moral. Then Verena began telling anecdotes of the past, and Pauline joined her; and the children laughed, and nearly cried with delight. That drive was the happiest they had ever enjoyed.

But it was somewhat late in the afternoon when the birthday treat came to its culmination. They were having tea on the lawn, a most fascinating tea, with a frosted cake in the middle of the table, on which Pauline's name was inscribed in golden letters, and round which were lighted fourteen little wax candles, denoting that she had now come to that mature age. The candles were protected by tiny glass shades, so that the soft summer air could not blow them about, and all the girls thought they had never seen such a wonderful sight. Mr. Dale was abducted from his study—there was really no other word to describe the way in which he was carried off bodily—and requested to light the candles. He did so looking very confused, and as though he did not in the least comprehend what he was doing. Nevertheless he was there, and he was obliged to seat himself in the centre of the group; and then garlands and garlands of flowers suddenly made their appearance, and Pauline was conducted to her throne, and a crown of tiny roses was placed on her dark head, and wreaths of flowers were laid at her feet.

"Now you are queen, Pauline," said Miss Tredgold. "Your father and I and your sisters are bound to obey you from now until ten o'clock to-night. This is your reign. It is short, but full of possibilities. What are we to do for you, fair queen? In what way do you wish to employ us?"

"May I wish for anything?" asked Pauline eagerly.

She had a flashing thought as she uttered the words—a quick, terrible, agonized thought. Oh, if only she might claim her birthright! If only she might put into use her grand privilege and ask for the one thing she really wanted—a free, absolute pardon! If she might confess her sin without confessing it, and get her aunt and father to say that, whatever she had done in the past, she was forgiven now! Just for an instant her black eyes looked almost wild; then they fixed themselves on Miss Tredgold, who was looking at her attentively. She glanced beyond her, and met the great black eyes of Penelope. Penelope seemed to be reading Pauline. Pauline felt a sudden revulsion of feeling.

"That would never do," she said to herself.

"Why don't you speak?" said Verena in her gentle voice.

"I was considering what to ask," replied Pauline.

"It isn't to ask, it is to command," said Miss Tredgold. "What sort of a queen would you make, Pauline, if you really had a kingdom? This is your kingdom. It lasts for a few hours; still, for the present it is your own. Your sway is absolute."

"Then let us have hide-and-seek in the garden," she said.

She laughed. The spell was broken. Penelope's eyes lost their watchful glance. The girls were all agreeable. Mr. Dale rose to his feet.

"I have had my tea," he said, "and the queen has received her crown. I am truly thankful that birthdays don't last longer than a day. I presume there is no reason why I may not return to my study."

"No, father, you mustn't stir," said Pauline. "You are my subject, and I command you to play hide-and-seek. You and Aunt Sophy must hide together. Now let us begin."

The games that followed were provocative of mirth. Even Mr. Dale was heard to chuckle feebly. This was when Josephine put her hand into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief. He made a scholarly remark the next moment to Miss Tredgold, who replied:

"For goodness' sake, Henry, come down from the clouds. This is your child's birthday. It is all very well to know all that musty stuff, but there are times when it is fifty times better to be full of nonsense."

Mr. Dale groaned, and then Lucy seemed to spring out of the ground. She laughed in his face, and cried out that she had found him.

So the merry game proceeded. It had nearly come to an end when Pauline and Penelope found themselves alone.

"I waited for you at twelve o'clock," said Penelope, "but you never comed. Why didn't you?"

"I didn't want to, Pen. I have changed my mind. Think no more about what I said."

"I can't never forget it," replied Pen.

But then she heard a whoop from a distant enemy, and darted to another part of the garden.

The game of hide-and-seek was followed by another, and then another and yet another, and the cries of mirth and laughter sounded all over the place. Even Betty forgot the tragic end of the Duke of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton, who was killed by a brigand in Italy while defending his fair duchess. Betty had been weeping scalding tears over the tragedy when the sound of mirth called her forth. John accompanied her, and the other servants looked on in the distance.

"There never was such a rowdy family," said Betty.

"Rowdy do you call it?" cried John.

"Yes; and the very rowdiest is Miss Tredgold. For mercy's sake look at the way she runs! She's as fleet as a hare."

"She have very neat ankles," said John. "I call her a neat figure of a woman."

"Don't tell me," said Betty. "Much you know what a neat figure of a woman means. Miss Tredgold's a haristocrat. Now, if you'll believe me, she's the moral image of the duchess."

"What duchess?" cried John.

"The Duchess of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton—her that's just made a widow, and is crying her eyes out over the murdered remains of the poor dook."

"Sometimes," said John, "I think that you have gone off your head, Betty. But I can't stay to listen to any more of these nonsenses. I have my garden to look after."

The final delight before the curtain of that birthday was dropped down for ever found its vent in music—music in which Mr. Dale took a part, and in which Miss Tredgold excelled herself. It was the music that awoke Pauline's slumbering conscience. It was during that music that her heart truly began to understand itself.

"I am wicked—a coward and a liar," she thought. "But, all the same, I am going on, for I must. Aunt Sophy loves me, and I love her, and I wouldn't have her love turned to hate for all the world. She must never find out what I did in the past, and the only way to keep it from her is to go on as I am going on."



CHAPTER XVII.

A WILD FROLIC.

The first part of the birthday was absolutely over, but the second part—the terrifying, awful part—was at hand. Aunt Sophy had kissed Pauline and had blessed her by a look. Her father had also put his trembling hand on her shoulder.

"When you want to read that lovely volume of Cicero," he said, "come to me and I will teach you. I will spare a few minutes of my valuable time to give you instruction."

Verena had also kissed her heartily, and she and the rest of her sisters had gone to bed. They were all tired. Verena came for a minute into Pauline's little room.

"I am too sleepy even to brush my hair in your room to-night, Paulie," she said. "I am too sleepy to talk about our long happy day. What a pile of presents you have got! Don't you think you have had a perfect birthday? I only wish mine was near at hand."

"It will come in good time," said Pauline; "and even birthdays——"

She broke off abruptly.

"What do you mean by 'even birthdays'?" asked Verena. "What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say that even birthdays had drawbacks. I know that I am dead-tired."

"You look it, darling. Do turn into bed and go to sleep."

Verena kissed her sister and left the room.

Pauline stood by the attic window. The window was a French one, and was wide open. The night was warm; the sky was without a cloud; stars like diamonds dotted the firmament; the sky itself looked darkly blue. Pauline felt a sudden thrill going through her. It was a thrill from the nobler part of her being. The whole day, and all that happened in the day, had wrought her up to her present state of feeling. A touch now and she would have confessed all. A touch, a look, would have done it—for the child, with her many faults, was capable of noble deeds; but the touch was not there, nor the word of gentle advice given. Had her mother been alive, Pauline would have certainly gone to her and confessed what she had done. As it was, she only felt that, in order to save herself from the past, she must do something much more wicked in the future.

She waited until she was quite certain that Verena was in bed; then she gently unfastened the door of her room and stole out on to the landing. There was not a light in the house. All the tired people had gone to bed. She reached the room, at the farther end of the same wing, where Briar and Patty slept. The sleeping attics occupied two wings of the old house, the centre part of the house being without rooms in the roof. Pauline, Verena, Briar, and Patty slept in one of the wings, the rest of the girls and the nursery children in the other. Mr. Dale had the room exactly under the large attic occupied by Briar and Patty. Miss Tredgold's room was under the nursery wing.

Pauline now very gently opened the door of the room where her two little sisters slept. They were not asleep; they were sitting up in their beds waiting for her.

"We thought you would come, Paulie," said Briar. "We are so excited! What is it you want us to do for you, darling Paulie?"

"To save me! To save me!" said Pauline.

Her tone was dramatic; her action was more so. She fell on her knees by Briar's bed; she clasped her arms round the little girl's neck; she laid her head on her shoulder and burst into tears. The birthday queen was weeping. Could emotion go beyond that fact? Patty bounded out of her bed and knelt by Pauline's other side. The two little girls clasped their arms round her. She had exercised a glamour over them all day, which now became greater than ever. Was she not their queen? Oh, yes, until midnight she was their own dear and absolutely beautiful queen. An hour was still left of her sovereignty. She had quite stolen their hearts; they loved her like anything.

"What is it, Paulie?" said Briar.

"I must tell you," said Pauline. "I know you won't betray me."

"Indeed we won't," they both answered.

"Well, then, this is what has happened."

She began to tell her story. She told it quickly, for the time was short. If they were to meet Nancy they must steal away almost at once. Pauline told her tale with scarcely any comment. When it was finished she looked at her sisters. The moonlight was in the room, and Pauline's face looked ghastly, but it looked beautiful also. Her eyes were very big and dark and solemn and beseeching. Briar and Patty glanced at each other.

"Shall we?" said Briar.

"It seems the only thing to do," said Patty.

"All the same, it is awfully wrong," said Briar.

"Think of poor Paulie," said Patty.

"If we are discovered——" cried Briar.

"Oh, bother!" interrupted Patty. "She's our queen. We must obey her. We are bound to help her. Let us go. She mustn't run into danger. You know what Nancy has said: two of us must go with her. She mustn't go alone."

Briar leant towards Patty, and Patty whispered in her ear; and then the two little girls began to dress.

"You are darlings," said Pauline. "I shall never forget this to you—never. I have everything else managed. I am going back to my room. When you are dressed you must shut the door of your room very quietly behind you, and then you must steal along the corridor and you will find my door just ajar. We will get out of my window by the beech-tree, and we'll be back and safe in our beds before any one is up in the morning."

"It certainly is thrilling," said Briar, raising her voice in her excitement.

"Oh, don't speak so loud!" said Pauline. "Dress very fast. I will wait for you in my room. I shall be quite ready."

Pauline rushed back to her own room. She then put on a warm golf-cape and an old hat; and her arrangements having been completed, she bent out of the French window. In an incredibly short time Briar and Patty appeared. All three girls were now in the wildest state of excitement. Scruples were silenced for the time being. Pauline's conscience no longer spoke. She felt that a midnight picnic, stolen, partaken of under difficulties, sinned mightily to obtain, had its own inexplicable charm. It was certainly sweet to be naughty; there was a thrill about it, and a sense of adventure, which goodness never brought. Oh, yes, it was well worth the risk and danger. Her two little sisters partook of Pauline's feelings. They all easily reached the ground, and when they found themselves outside in the middle of the night, it was with difficulty that Briar could keep from giving a shriek of ecstasy.

"I suppose it's because I'm so awfully naughty that I enjoy it so," she said.

"Come along; don't speak," said Pauline.

She took a hand of each sister. They ran quickly over the dew-laden grass. Their feet soon got wet, for they had forgotten to put on strong shoes. But what mattered that? What did small discomforts signify when the grand total of pleasure was so enormous?

They opened the wicket-gate, and Pauline found herself immediately in the strong embrace of Nancy King.

"There you are, darling!" she cried, bestowing a resounding kiss on her cheek. "I feared that the she-dragon would waken and call you back; but you are here, and you have brought—let me see. Oh, you are Patty, are you not? And Briar? You are my friends for ever now. Oh, we shall have fun! The wagonette is here, and the dogcart; there are a party of us, and a lot more coming to meet us at the rendezvous. We shall have the most glorious time you ever imagined."

As Nancy spoke she called out to two girls who were standing in the shadow.

"Becky, this is Briar Dale—in other words, Rose Dale. You are to see after her. Amy, Patty Dale is your charge. Now let us get into the wagonette, for it is the snuggest of all the carriages, and the horses are so fleet. Listen how they are pawing the ground; they're mad to be off. Oh, here's father! Father, three of the young Dales have come."

"Pleased to see you, I'm sure," said the farmer. "It's a warm night for the time of year."

The little girls did not answer. Even Pauline, now that she had met the rest of the party, felt curiously silent. A weight seemed to rest on her. Her wild and riotous spirits had died down. Her conscience was not troubling her, but she felt depressed, she scarcely knew why.

"I want something to poke me up," she said to herself. "I thought I'd be quite riotous with bliss when I met Nancy. I don't feel riotous; and, oh, how white the moonlight is making Briar look! Briar," whispered Pauline suddenly, "are your feet very wet?"

"Very: and they're getting so cold," said Briar.

"What are you talking about?" said Nancy.

"The fact is," said Pauline, "we forgot to put on our outdoor shoes, and the dew is very heavy."

"Dear, dear! That will never do. Father, what do you think these silly little misses have done? They've come out in their house slippers."

"I never!" cried the farmer. "You are silly little ladies; that I will say. I tell you what it is, Nance; we don't want these children to catch cold. Shall we drive back to The Hollies and get them some of your shoes? You have enough, I take it, to shoe a regiment."

Nancy laughed.

"They wouldn't fit," she said. "They'd be too big for any of them."

"Well, then," said the farmer, "they shall all three take their shoes off and wrap their feet in these warm rugs. They can put them on again, and when the dancing begins they will soon dry."

"Are we to dance?" said Pauline, her eyes sparkling.

"You wait and see," said Nancy.

"Yes, you wait and see," cried the farmer. "There are all sorts of surprises. And there's a birthday queen of this here party, ain't there, Nancy?"

"I have heard tell that there was," said Nancy. As she spoke she took Pauline's hand and dragged the little girl forward to sit by her.

The drive took some time, and the farmer and his party were extremely loud and riotous and merry. As they passed under the huge oak-trees some one in a dogcart went by, and the light from a lantern fell on his face. Pauline recognized Dr. Moffat. The moment she saw him he looked round, and she fancied that he must have seen her, and that his eyebrows went up with an expression of astonishment. But he did not look again; he only continued on his way.

"I do hope he didn't see me," said Pauline to Nancy.

"What matter if he did? He's thinking of his profession, and not of a little girl like you. I wonder where he is going to."

"To Farmer Jackson," said Farmer King. "He broke his leg a fortnight ago, and they say mortification is setting in and he can't live. Poor Farmer Jackson! Here are we all on a rollick, so to speak, a midnight picnic in summer, and all our hearts as light as froth, and the farmer lying on the flat of his back and like to pass away before morning."

Pauline felt uncomfortable. She turned her head away. She did not wish to think of the sober events of life at that moment.

By-and-by the long drive came to an end. The girls again put on their wet slippers, and the next moment they found themselves inside a large marquee, with a boarded floor, where a magnificent feast was prepared at the farther end. The whole centre of the marquee was got ready for dancing, and a number of young people whom Pauline had never seen before were standing about in little knots, evidently waiting for the arrival of the farmer and his family.

"There!" said Nancy. "Now, Paulie, what do you think? Here's feasting for you at this end, and there's dancing at the other, and if the Kings don't do things in style I don't know who do."

"Ah, Miss King, and how are you?"

"Pleased to see you, I'm sure," was Nancy's response.

A bashful-looking young man with sandy hair and light-blue eyes now came forward. He was followed by a girl of similar type, and the two were introduced to Pauline as Mr. and Miss Minchin. The Minchins were accompanied by other neighbors, and the Dale girls found themselves in the midst of a party numbering at least fifty people.

Pauline felt suddenly shy. As a rule she was not remarkable for this quality. She had a certain pretty assurance, and never, as her sisters expressed it, lost her head; but now her principal desire was to creep into her shell, not to answer the inane remarks made by the young men of the party, and on no account to allow them to put their arms round her waist and carry her round in the dance. Her face grew first red, then pale. She realized that she was very tired, and more than ever did she wish that she had never yielded to Nancy's enticements.

Patty and Briar, on the other hand, were enjoying themselves very much. They had done this very naughty thing on account of Pauline; they were glad they were helping her—their consciences did not trouble them in the least. They leant upon Pauline more than they were themselves aware of. If trouble came, she would of course shield them. At present there was no trouble. A picnic in the middle of the night, miles away from home, was the most exciting thing they had ever imagined. It beat the joys of the birthday hollow. They were quite aware that by-and-by there would perhaps be repentance, but who could think of repentance now, with the feast—and such a feast!—on the board, and Fiddler Joe making such exquisite, mad, intoxicating music (it caused your feet to twitch so that they could scarcely keep still), and that floor as smooth as glass, and the summer moon entering through a chink in the big tent, and the gayly dressed people, and all the merry voices? Oh, it was an intoxicating time!

So Briar danced with the first man who asked her, and Patty did likewise. They danced with the ease and lightness and grace of children in whom the accomplishment is born. Nancy's clumsy efforts, and the clumsy efforts of her friends, were nowhere beside them.

"That little girl," said a rough-headed farmer, pointing to Patty as he spoke, "dances like the foam of the sea. I never saw anything like it in all my life."

"But why doesn't the elder Miss Dale dance?" asked Farmer King.

He had noticed that she was declining one partner after another.

"Come, Miss Paulie," he said, going to her side: "this won't do. May I have the pleasure of a barn-dance with you, miss? You can't refuse me."

Pauline did find it impossible to refuse the good man. He took her hand and led her out, and presently she, too, was being whirled round and round. But her sense of weariness increased, and the heavy pain and bewilderment at her heart grew worse. Oh, why had she come? Once the farmer, looking at her, saw tears in her eyes. In a moment he stopped dancing. He took her hand and led her to the other side of the tent.

"You dance beautifully, miss," he said; "not quite so light as your little sister, but I am proud to be seen with you, miss, all the same. And now, if I may make so bold, what is the matter with you, Miss Pauline Dale?"

"Nothing," answered Pauline.

"Don't tell me," replied the farmer. "Is it in reason that a little lady like yourself would have tears in her eyes at a moment like the present if there was nothing the matter? Is it in reason, miss?"

"Oh, I ought not to have come!" said Pauline.

The farmer's face grew rather red. He looked full at Pauline for a moment; then he said:

"I can't speak out now, for it's only the beginning of the fun. There's a great deal planned, and you are in the thick of it, but before you go back home I'll have a word with you; so cheer up, my pretty little miss, for things that aren't right can be put right. You trust Farmer King for that."

Pauline did cheer up. She felt that the farmer was her friend, and she also knew that he was a friend worth having. The other girls met her once or twice, and Patty whispered:

"Oh, there never was anything like this before! I could be naughty every single night of my life to have such fun!"

The dance was followed by the feast, and the feast was A1. When it was over there was a moment of silence. Then Nancy, accompanied by Briar and Patty, Becky and Amy, and the two boys, Jack and Tom, assembled round the seat where Pauline had placed herself.

"It is your turn, Paulie," said Nancy. "You are queen of to-night, for it is the night following your birthday. Come, queen, take your throne."

"I am sick of thrones," answered Pauline.

But Nancy took her hand.

"Whatever you feel, you must not show it," she said, "for that will spoil everything. Here is your throne; step up."

Pauline looked round her. Up to the present moment a curtain had been drawn across one end of the tent. It was now removed, and the little girl saw a deep chair covered completely with flowers and moss and ferns. A bright light was hanging just at the back of this throne. Now Pauline, as queen of the day, was led up to it, and requested to take her seat thereon. She did so, feeling queer and giddy. When she was seated the young people stood in groups at her right hand and at her left.

The farmer now appeared, carrying a table. All the guests stood in the background and looked on. The table was placed in front of Pauline. At the same instant Nancy bent forward and laid her hand across the little girl's eyes.

"Don't look just for a minute," she said.

Pauline heard the ecstatic whispers of her own little sisters, and for the first time a feeling of wonder and pleasure stole over her. She forgot all that had gone before, and for the time was both happy and excited.

"Now you may look," said Nancy.

As Pauline opened her eyes she felt something cool and soft descending on her head.

"Don't touch it," whispered Nancy; "it's your crown. But come, girls and boys, we must do more than this to make our queen beautiful."

As she spoke all the young people divided into two groups, crossed the floor, and came past Pauline as she sat on her throne; and each one, as she or he passed, threw a wreath of flowers either over the head of the little girl, or round her neck, or into her lap, until finally she found herself absolutely embedded in flowers.

"Look at yourself," said Nancy, suddenly slipping a looking-glass in front of the birthday queen. "Tell us what you see."

Pauline looked. The lights were so managed that she could see everything distinctly. The lights fell full upon her. She saw a pair of dark eyes, sweet, anxious, and beautiful; she saw a radiant and rosy face. Lilies of the valley, sweet-peas, and summer roses fell about her soft dark hair. Similar flowers fell about her neck. Her dress was hidden beneath its wealth of flowers; her charming face rose out of a perfect foam of flowers.

"Oh, I do look beautiful!" she said aloud, and at the naive remark the whole party shouted with merriment. Nancy cried, "Long life to the queen!" and Joe the Fiddler burst into his merriest strains; it was with the greatest difficulty that the desire for dancing could be suppressed, for the little ceremony was not yet quite over. It was Nancy's turn to come forward.

"Queen of the night," she said, "we hope that you will like what we, your subjects, have done for you, and we hope that you will never forget your happy birthday. There is just one thing I have to say. When the flowers fade—and they are fading already—you, dear queen, will have no longer a kingdom, so we have brought you something; we have subscribed among us for something that will not fade—something that you can always wear in memory of us. Look! isn't it beautiful?"

As Nancy spoke, she took a morocco case from the table, touched a spring, and revealed to Pauline's dazzled eyes, a necklace of thin pure gold, to which a little locket, with a diamond in the centre, was attached.

"This won't fade," said Nancy. "You can keep it all your life long. You can also remember that there are people in the world, perhaps born a little lower than yourself, who love you and care for you."

"Oh, you are good!" cried Pauline. "I will never forsake you, Nancy, or think myself better than you are."

"Didn't I say she was a brick?" said Nancy. "Stoop your head, queen; I will clasp the necklace around your neck."

Pauline did stoop her head, and the necklace was put in its place. The little diamond in the centre glittered as though it had a heart of fire. The flowers smelled sweet, but also heavy. Pauline was tired once again; but the music was resumed. Fiddler Joe played more enchanting music than before, and Pauline, suddenly rising from her throne, determined to dance during the remaining hours of that exciting night.

But all happy things, and all naughty things come to an end, for such is the fashion of earth; and by-and-by the farmer said that if they wished to be home before morning they must get into the wagonette and the dogcart, and their guests must take themselves away. Now it was the farmer's turn to come up to Pauline.

"You have given us all pleasure to-night, Miss Pauline," he said; "and it warms our hearts to feel that, whatever the circumstances, you will always be true to us, who have been true to you and yours for generations. For, miss, the history of the Dales is almost bound up with the history of the Kings. And if the Dales were gentlefolks and lords of the manor, the Kings were their humble retainers. So, miss, the Dales and Kings were always good to each other; the Kings over and over again laying down their lives for the Dales in the Civil Wars, and the Dales on their part protecting the Kings. So, after all, miss, there's no earthly reason, because a grand aunt of yours has come to live at The Dales, why the traditions of your house should be neglected and forgotten. I am proud to feel that this will never happen, and that your family and mine will be one. We do not consider ourselves your equals, but we do consider ourselves your friends. And if I can ever help you, Miss Pauline, you have only to come to me and I will do it. That's all I've got to say. I don't want thanks. I'm proud that you and your little sisters have trusted yourselves to us to-night, and I leave the matter of whether it was right or wrong to your own consciences. But whatever happens, what you did to-night is the sort of thing that Farmer King will never forget."



CHAPTER XVIII.

VINEGAR.

It was certainly not at all remarkable that the entire party should be drowsy and languid on the following day. Pauline had dark shadows under her eyes, and there was a fretful note in her voice. Nurse declared that Briar and Patty had caught cold, and could not imagine how they had managed to do so; but Miss Tredgold said that colds were common in hot weather, and that the children had played too long in the open air on the previous night. In short, those who were out of the mischief suspected nothing, and Pauline began to hope that her wild escapade would never be known. Certainly Briar and Patty would not betray her.

They had all managed to climb up the tree and get in at her window without a soul knowing. Pauline therefore hoped that she was quite safe; and the hope that this was the case revived her spirits, so that in the afternoon she was looking and feeling much as usual. As she was dressing that morning she had made a sort of vow. It was not a bit the right thing to do, but then poor little Pauline was not doing anything very right just then. This was her vow. She had said in her prayer to God:

"If You will keep Aunt Sophy from finding out how naughty I have been, I will, on my part, be extra good. I will do my lessons most perfectly, and never, never, never deceive Aunt Sophy again."

Now, Pauline, unaware that such a prayer could not possibly be answered, felt a certain sense of security after she had made it.

In addition to the beautiful chain with its locket and its diamond star in the middle, she had received several other presents of the gay and loud and somewhat useless sort. Nancy's friends, Becky and Amy, had both given her presents, and several young people of the party had brought little trifles to present to the queen of the occasion. There was a time when Pauline would have been highly delighted with these gifts, but that time was not now. She felt the impossible tidies, the ugly pin-cushions, the hideous toilet-covers, the grotesque night-dress bags to be more burdens than treasures. What could she possibly do with them? The gold chain and locket were another matter. She felt very proud of her chain and her little heart-shaped locket. She was even mad enough to fasten the chain round her neck that morning and hide it beneath her frock, and so go downstairs with the diamond resting on her heart.

Miss Tredgold had wisely resolved that there were to be very few lessons that day. The girls were to read history and a portion of one of Shakespeare's plays, and afterwards they were to sit in the garden and do their fancy-work. They were all glad of the quiet day and of the absence of excitement, and as evening progressed they recovered from their fatigue, and Pauline was as merry as the rest.

It was not until preparation hour that Pauline felt a hand laid on her arm; two keen black eyes looked into her face, and a small girl clung to her side.

"Oh, what is it, Pen?" said Pauline, almost crossly. "What do you want now?"

"I thought perhaps you'd like to know," replied Penelope.

"To know what, you tiresome child? Don't press up against me; I hate being pawed."

"Does you? Perhaps you'd rather things was knowed."

"What is it, Pen? You are always so mysterious and tiresome."

"Only that I think you ought to tell me," said Penelope, lowering her voice and speaking with great gentleness. "I think you ought to tell me all about the things that are hidden away in that bandbox under your bed."

"What do you mean?" said Pauline, turning pale.

"Why, I thought I'd like to go into your room and have a good look round."

"But you have no right to do that sort of thing. It is intolerably mean of you. You had no right to go into my bedroom."

"I often does what I has no right to do," said Penelope, by no means abashed. "I went in a-purpose 'cos you didn't tell me what you wished to tell me once, and I was burning to know. Do you understand what it is to be all curiosity so that your heart beats too quick and you gets fidgety? Well, I was in that sort of state, and I said to myself, 'I will know.' So I went into your room and poked about. I looked under the bed, and there was an old bandbox where you kept your summer hat afore Aunt Sophy came; and I pulled it out and opened it, and, oh! I see'd—— Paulie, I'd like to have 'em. You doesn't want 'em, 'cos you have hidden 'em, and I should like to have 'em."

"What?"

"Why, that pin-cushion for one thing—oh! it's a beauty—and that tidy. May I have the pin-cushion and the tidy, Paulie—the purple pin-cushion and the red tidy? May I?"

"No."

"May Aunt Sophy have them?"

"Don't be silly."

"May anybody have them?"

"They're mine."

"How did you get them?"

"That's my affair."

"You didn't get them from me, nor from any of the other girls—I can go round and ask them if you like, but I know you didn't—nor from father, nor from Aunt Sophy, nor from Betty, nor from John, nor from any of the new servants. Who gave them to you?"

"That's my affair."

"You won't tell?"

"No."

"May I tell Aunt Sophy about the bandbox chock-full of funny things pushed under the bed?"

"If you do——"

Penelope danced a few feet away. She then stood in front of her sister and began to sway her body backwards and forwards.

"I see'd," she began, "such a funny thing!"

"Penelope, you are too tormenting!"

"I see'd such a very funny thing!"

Miss Tredgold was seen approaching. Penelope looked round at her and then deliberately raised her voice.

"I see'd such a very, very funny thing!"

"What is it, Pen? Why are you teasing your sister?" said Miss Tredgold.

"I aren't!" cried Penelope. "I are telling her something what she ought to know. It is about something I—— Shall I go on, Paulie?"

"No; you make my head ache. Aunt Sophy, may I go in and lie down?"

"Certainly, my dear. You look very pale. My poor child, you were over-excited yesterday. This won't do. Penelope, stop teasing your sister, and come for a walk with me. Pauline, go and lie down until dinner-time."

Pauline went slowly in the direction of the house, but fear dogged her footsteps. What did Penelope know, and what did she not know?

Meanwhile Miss Tredgold took the little girl's hand and began to pace up and down.

"I have a great deal to correct in you, Pen," she said. "You are always spying and prying. That is not a nice character for a child."

"I can be useful if I spy and pry," said Penelope.

"My dear, unless you wish to become a female detective, you will be a much greater nuisance than anything else if you go on making mysteries about nothing. I saw that you were tormenting dear little Pauline just now. The child is very nervous. If she is not stronger soon I shall take her to the seaside. She certainly needs a change."

"And me, too?" said Penelope. "I want change awful bad."

"Not a bit of you. I never saw a more ruddy, healthy-looking little girl in the whole course of my life."

"I wonder what I could do to be paled down," thought Penelope to herself; but she did not speak her thought aloud. "I mustn't tell Aunt Sophy, that is plain. I must keep all I know about Paulie dark for the present. There's an awful lot. There's about the thimble, and—yes, I did see them all three. I'm glad I saw them. I won't tell now, for I'd only be punished; but if I don't tell, and pretend I'm going to, Paulie will have to pay me to keep silent. That will be fun."

The days passed, and Pauline continued to look pale, and Miss Tredgold became almost unreasonably anxious about her. Notwithstanding Verena's assurance that Pauline had the sort of complexion that often looked white in summer, the good lady was not reassured. There was something more than ordinary weakness and pallor about the child. There was an expression in her eyes which kept her kind aunt awake at night.

Now this most excellent woman had never yet allowed the grass to grow under her feet. She was quick and decisive in all her movements. She was the sort of person who on the field of battle would have gone straight to the front. In the hour of danger she had never been known to lose her head. She therefore lost no time in making arrangements to take Verena and Pauline to the seaside. Accordingly she wrote to a landlady she happened to know, and engaged some remarkably nice rooms at Easterhaze on the south coast. Verena and Pauline were told of her plans exactly a week after the birthday. Pauline had been having bad dreams; she had been haunted by many things. The look of relief on her face, therefore, when Miss Tredgold told her that they were to pack their things that day, and that she, Verena, and herself would start for Easterhaze at an early hour on the following morning, was almost beyond words.

"Why is you giving Pauline this great big treat?" asked Penelope.

"Little girls should be seen and not heard," was Miss Tredgold's remark.

"But this little girl wants to be heard," replied the incorrigible child. "'Cos she isn't very strong, and 'cos her face is palefied."

"There is no such word as palefied, Penelope."

"I made it. It suits me," said Penelope.

"Pauline's cheeks are rather too pale," answered Miss Tredgold.

She did not reprove Penelope, for in spite of herself she sometimes found a smile coming to her face at the child's extraordinary remarks.

Presently Penelope slipped away. She went thoughtfully across the lawn. Her head was hanging, and her whole stout little figure testified to the fact that she was meditating.

"Off to the sea!" she muttered softly to herself. "Off to the big briny waves, to the wadings, to the sand castles, to the shrimps, to the hurdy-gurdies, and all 'cos she's palefied. I wish I could be paled."

She ran into the house, rushed through the almost deserted nursery, and startled nurse out of her seven senses with a wild whoop.

"Nursey, how can I be paled down?"

"Nonsense, child! Don't talk rubbish."

"Am I pale, nursey, or am I a rosy sort of little girl?"

"You are a sunburnt, healthy-looking little child, with no beauty to fash about," was nurse's blunt response.

"Am I healthy-looking?"

"Of course you are, Miss Pen. Be thankful to the Almighty for it, and don't worry me."

Pen stuck out her tongue, made a hideous face at nurse, and darted from the room. She stood in the passage for a minute or two reflecting, then she slipped round and went in the direction of Pauline's bedroom.

The bandbox chock-full of those vulgar presents had been pushed into the back part of a dark cupboard which stood in the little girl's room. Penelope knew all about that. She opened the cupboard, disappeared into its shadows, and then returned with an orange-colored tidy and a chocolate-red pin-cushion. Having made a bag of the front of her frock, she slipped the pin-cushion and tidy into it, and ran off to the kitchen. Aunt Sophia visited the kitchen each morning, but Pen knew that the hour of her daily visit had not yet arrived. Betty was there, surreptitiously reading a copy of the Faithful Friend. She started when Pen darted into her domain.

"Now what is it, Miss Penelope? For goodness' sake, miss, get out of this. Your aunt would be flabbergasted to see you here."

For response Pen planted down in front of Betty the orange-colored tidy and the chocolate-red pin-cushion.

"Here's some things," she said. "Here's two nice things for a nice body. What will that nice body give for these nice things?"

"My word!" said Betty, "they're natty."

She took up the pin-cushion and examined it all over. She then laid it down again. She next took up the tidy, turned it from side to side, and placed it, with a sigh of distinct desire, beside the pin-cushion.

"Them's my taste," she said. "I like those sort of fixed colors. I can't abide the wishy-washy tastes of the present day."

"They's quite beautiful, ain't they?" said Pen. "I'll give them to you if you will——"

"You will give them to me?" said Betty. "But where did you get them from?"

"That don't matter a bit. Don't you ask any questions and you will hear no lies. I will give them to you, and nobody and nothing shall ever take them from you again, if you do something for me."

"What's that, Miss Pen?"

"Will you, Betty—will you? And will you be awful quick about it."

"I should like to have them," said Betty. "There's a friend of mine going to commit marriage, and that tidy would suit her down to the ground. She'd like it beyond anything. But, all the same, I don't hold with young ladies forcing their way into my kitchen; it's not haristocratic."

"Never mind that ugly word. Will you do what I want?"

"What is it, Miss Pen?"

"Palefy me. Make me sort of refined. Take the color out of me. Bleach me—that's it. I want to go to the seaside. Pale people go; rosy people don't. I want to be awful pale by to-night. How can it be done? It's more genteel to be pale."

"It is that," said Betty, looking at the rosy Penelope with critical eyes. "I have often fretted over my own color; it's mostly fixed in the nose, too. But I don't know any way to get rid of it."

"Don't you?" said Penelope.

Quick as thought she snatched up the pin-cushion and tidy.

"You don't have these," she said. "Your friend what's going to be married won't have this tidy. If you can't take fixed colors out of me, you don't have fixed colors for your bedroom, so there!"

"You are awful quick and smart, miss, and I have heard tell that vinegar does it."

"Vinegar?"

"I have heard tell, but I have never tried it. You drink it three times a day, a wine-glass at a time. It's horrid nasty stuff, but if you want to change your complexion you must put up with some sort of inconvenience."

"Suppose, Betty, you and me both drink it. Your nose might get white, and I might go to the seaside."

"No, miss, I'm not tempted to interfere with nature. I've got good 'ealth, and I'll keep it without no vinegar."

"But will you give me some? You shall have the pin-cushion and the tidy if you do."

"'Arriet would like that tidy," contemplated Betty, looking with round eyes at the hideous ornament.

"You sneak round to the boot-house, and I'll have it ready for you," she said. "Come at eleven, come again at half-past three, and come at seven in the evening."

This was arranged, and Pen, faithfully to the minute, did make her appearance in the boot-house. She drank off her first glass of vinegar with a wry face; but after it was swallowed she began to feel intensely good and pleased with herself.

"Will it pale me in an hour?" was her thought.

She ran upstairs, found a tiny square of looking-glass, concealed it in her pocket, and came down again. During the remainder of the day she might have been observed at intervals sneaking away by herself, and had any one followed her, that person would have seen her taking the looking-glass from her pocket and carefully examining her cheeks.

Alas! the vinegar had only produced a slight feeling of discomfort; it had not taken any of the bloom out of the firm, fat cheeks.

"It's horrid, and it's not doing it," thought the child. "I wish I hadn't gived her that tidy and that pin-cushion. But I will go on somehow till the color is out. They will send for me when they hear that I'm bad. Perhaps I'll look bad to-night."

But Pen's "perhapses" were knocked on the head, for Miss Tredgold made a sudden and most startling announcement.

"Why wait for the morning?" she exclaimed. "We are all packed and ready. We can easily get to Easterhaze by a late train to-night."

Accordingly, by a late train that evening Miss Tredgold, Verena, and Pauline departed. They drove to Lyndhurst Road, and presently found themselves in a first-class carriage being carried rapidly away.

"I am glad I thought of it," said Miss Tredgold, turning to the two girls. "It is true we shall arrive late, but Miss Pinchin will have things ready, as she will have received my telegram. We shall sleep at our new quarters in peace and comfort, and be ready to enjoy ourselves in the morning."



CHAPTER XIX.

GLENGARRY CAPS.

Penelope drank her vinegar three times a day. She applied herself to this supposed remedy with a perseverance and good faith worthy of a better cause. This state of things continued until on a certain night she was seized with acute pain, and awoke shrieking out the startling words, "Vinegar! vinegar!" Nurse, who was not in the plot, thought the child was raving. She scolded Penelope more than pitied her, administered a strong dose, and, in short, treated her as rather a naughty invalid.

"It's green apples that has done it," said nurse, shaking her head solemnly, and looking as if she thought Penelope ought certainly to return to her nursery thraldom.

"I mustn't take so much vinegar," thought the little girl; "but I do hope that being so ill, and taking the horrid medicine, and being scolded by the nurse will have made me a bit pale."

She doubtless hoped also that her illness would be reported to Miss Tredgold, who would send for her in double-quick time; but as Miss Tredgold was not told, and no one took any notice of Pen's fit of indigestion, she was forced to try other means to accomplish her darling desire—for go to the seaside she was determined she would. Of late she had been reading all the books she could find relating to the sea. She devoted herself to the subject of shells and seaweeds, and always talked with admiration of those naughty children who got into mischief on the sands.

"Lots of them get drownded," she was heard to say to Adelaide. "It is quite, quite common to be washed up a drownded person by the big waves."

Adelaide did not believe it, but Penelope stuck to her own opinion, and whenever she found one of her sisters alone and ready to listen to her, her one invariable remark was:

"Tell me about the sea."

Once it darted into her erratic little head that she would run away, walk miles and miles, sleep close to the hedges at night, receive drinks of milk from good-natured cottagers, and finally appear a dusty, travel-stained, very sick little girl at Aunt Sophia's lodgings at Easterhaze. But the difficulties in the way of such an undertaking were beyond even Pen's heroic spirit. Notwithstanding her vinegar and her suffering, she was still rosy—indeed, her cheeks seemed to get plumper and rounder than ever. She hated to think of the vinegar she had taken in vain; she hated to remember Betty and the tidy and pin-cushion she had given her.

Meanwhile the days passed quickly and the invitation she pined for did not come. What was to be done? Suddenly it occurred to her that, if she could only become possessed of certain facts which she now suspected, she might be able to fulfil her own darling desire. For Pen knew more than the other girls supposed. She was very angry with Pauline for not confiding in her on Pauline's birthday, and at night she had managed to keep awake, and had risen softly from her cot and stood in her white night-dress by the window; and from there she had seen three little figures creeping side by side across the lawn—three well-known little figures. She had very nearly shouted after them; she had very nearly pursued them. But all she really did was to creep back into bed and say to herself in a tone of satisfaction:

"Now I knows. Now I will get lots of pennies out of Paulie."

She dropped into the sleep of a happy child almost as she muttered the last words, but in the morning she had not forgotten what she had seen.

On a certain day shortly after Penelope had recovered from her very severe fit of indigestion, she was playing on the lawn, making herself, as was her wont, very troublesome, when Briar, looking up from her new story-book, said in a discontented voice:

"I do wish you would go away, Penelope. You worry me awfully."

Penelope, instead of going away, went and stood in front of her sister.

"Does I?" she said. "Then I am glad."

"You really are a horrid child, Pen. Patty and Adelaide, can you understand why Pen is such a disagreeable child?"

"She is quite the most extraordinary child I ever heard of in the whole course of my life," said Adelaide. "The other night, when she woke up with a pain in her little tum-tum, she shouted, 'Vinegar! vinegar!' She must really have been going off her poor little head."

"No, I wasn't," said Penelope, who turned scarlet and then white. "It was vinegar—real vinegar. It was to pale me."

"Oh, don't talk to her!" said Patty. "She is too silly for anything. Go away, baby, and play with sister Marjorie, and don't talk any more rubbish."

"You call me baby?" said Penelope, coming close to the last speaker, and standing with her arms akimbo. "You call me baby? Then I will ask you a question. Who were the people that walked across the lawn on the night of Paulie's birthday? Who was the three peoples who walked holding each other's hands?—little peoples with short skirts—little peoples about the size of you, maybe; and about the size of Briar, maybe; and about the size of Paulie, maybe. Who was they? You answer me that. They wasn't ghostses, was they?"

Briar turned pale; Patty glanced at her. Adelaide, who had watchful blue eyes, turned and looked from one sister to the other.

"You are talking rubbish," said Briar. "Go and play."

"Who was they?" repeated Pen.

"I don't know."

"Am I baby or big wise girl?"

"Oh, you are an infant Solomon! I don't know who the people were."

"Don't you?"

Penelope looked at Briar with a sigh of disappointment. Then she whispered to herself:

"It's 'cos of Adelaide. Course they don't want to say anything when Addy's there."

She strolled away.

"What was the child talking about?" asked Adelaide.

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Briar. "She's the rummiest little thing that ever walked. But there's no good in taking any notice of what she says."

"Of course no one does," answered Adelaide. "But I do wonder if ghosts ever walk across the lawn. Do you believe in ghosts, Briar?"

"Certainly not," said Briar. "No girl in her senses does."

"I don't know at all as to that," replied Adelaide. "There was a girl that came to stay with Nancy King last year; her name was Freda Noell. She believed in ghosts. She said she had once been in a haunted house. What is it, Briar? Why do you shrug your shoulders?"

"I don't know," said Briar. "I don't want to talk about ghosts. I don't believe in them."

She got up and crossed the lawn. The next moment Pen had tucked her hand inside her arm.

"You needn't keep it from me," she said in a whisper. "It was you and Patty and Paulie. I knew who you were, 'cos the moon shone on Patty's Glengarry cap. You needn't deny it."

"I do deny it. I didn't go," said Briar.

She felt her heart smite her as she told this lie. She walked quickly.

"Do leave me," she said. "You are a little girl that doesn't at all know her own place."

"But I do know it," said Penelope. "My place is at the seaside. I want to go there. I'm 'termined to go there. If I don't go one way I'll go another. Why should Paulie, what is the naughtiest of girls, have all the fun? I don't mind Renny being there so much. And why should I, what is the very best of girls, be kept stuck here with only nursey and you childrens to bother me? I am going. I'm 'termined."

She marched away. Patty came up.

"Patty," said Briar, "I've done it."

"What?" asked Patty.

"I've told a lie about it. I said we weren't on the lawn at all. I told her she was talking nonsense."

"Couldn't you have got out of it by any other way?" asked Patty. "It doesn't seem right to tell lies."

"I could with any one but Pen; but Pen can see through a brick wall. I had to tell it, and very plump, too, where Pen was in the question."

"Well, it makes me feel horrid," said Patty. "I am sorry we went. I think we did awfully wrong."

"We did it for Paulie. We'd do more than that for her," replied Briar.

"I suppose so. I certainly love Paulie very much," answered Patty.

"And, Patty," continued Briar, "having told such a great black lie to help her, we must go through with it. Pen means mischief. She's the sort of child who would do anything to gain anything. She wants to go to the seaside, and she wouldn't mind whom she got into trouble if it suited her own ends. We must remember she means mischief, and if she talks again about three figures on the lawn, you and I have got to stick to it that we didn't go. Do you understand?"

"I do, and I consider it awful," said Patty.

She did not add any more, but went slowly into the house. Presently, feeling much depressed, she sought nurse's society. Nurse was turning some of the girls' skirts. She was a good needlewoman, and had clung to the house of Dale through many adverse circumstances. She was enjoying herself at present, and used often to say that it resembled the time of the fat kine in Egypt.

"Ah, Miss Patty!" she cried. "It's glad I am to see you, darling."

"Can I do anything for you, nursey?" asked Patty.

"Of course you can, dear. You can help me to unpick this frock. I am cutting it down to fit Miss Pen. It will make a very neat frock for her, and it seems unfair that dear Miss Tredgold should be at more expense than is necessary."

"Why," asked Patty, with a surprised look, "doesn't father pay for the things?"

"Mr. Dale!" cried nurse in a tone of wrath, "I'd like to see him. It's not that he wouldn't, and for all I can tell he may have the money; but, bless you, darling! he'd forget it. He'd forget that there was such a thing as dress wanted in all the world; and servants and food, and the different things that all well-managed houses must have, couldn't lie on his memory while you were counting twenty. Do you suppose if that dear, blessed lady didn't put her hand into her pocket in the way she does that you'd be having the right good time you are now having, and the nice clothes, and the good education, and the pretty ponies coming next week? And Miss Pauline, just because she's a bit pale, taken to the seaside? Not a bit of it, my dear Miss Patty. It's thankful you ought to be to the Providence that put it into your aunt's head to act as she has done. Ah! if my dear mistress was living she would bless her dear sister."

"Did you know mother before she was married?" asked Patty, taking up a skirt and the pair of sharp scissors which nurse provided her with, and sitting down happily to her task.

"Didn't I live with her when she was Miss Tredgold?" asked nurse. "And didn't I over and over again help Miss Sophia out of scrapes? Oh, she was a wild young lady!"

"You don't mean to tell me that Aunt Sophy ever did anything wrong?"

"Nothing mean or shameful; but for temper and for spirit and for dash and for go there wasn't her like. Not a horse in the land was wild enough to please her. She'd ride bareback on any creature you gave her to mount, and never come to grief, neither. She broke horses that trainers couldn't touch. She had a way with her that they couldn't resist. Just a pat of her hand on their necks and they'd be quiet and shiver all over as though they were too delighted for anything. Oh, she did follow the hounds! My word! and she was admired, too. She was a young lady in a thousand. And as for wanting to have her own way, she was for all the world like our Miss Pauline. It strikes me those two have very much in common, and that is why Miss Tredgold has taken such a fancy to your sister."

"Do you think she has?" asked Patty.

"Do I think it?" cried nurse. "For goodness' sake, Miss Patty, don't cut the material. Do look where you are putting the scissors. Do I think it, miss? I know it. Miss Marjorie, sweet pet, you shall thread these daisies. You shall make a pretty chain of them to put around your neck. There's my little precious."

Fat, lovely, little Marjorie shrieked with delight when nurse put a coarse needle, to which was attached an equally coarse piece of cotton, and a basket of daisies before her. Marjorie tried to thread daisies, and uttered little cries of happiness, while Patty and nurse talked together.

"Miss Tredgold was a wonderful young lady, so handsome and high-spirited. But if she didn't always obey, she never did anything mean or underhand. Everybody loved her; and your poor mother was that took up with her that when my master proposed that they should marry, it was a good while before she'd consent—and all because she didn't want to part with Miss Sophy. She said that if Miss Sophy would consent to live with them she'd marry Mr. Dale at once, for she was very much attached to him. But Miss Sophy put down her foot. 'Live with a married couple!' she cried. 'Why, I'd rather die.' Well, my dear, there were words and tears and groans; but at last Miss Sophy took the bit between her teeth, and went off to an old relative, a certain Miss Barberry, in Scotland, and arranged to live with her and look after her. And your mother married; and when Miss Barberry died she left Miss Sophy every penny she possessed, and Miss Sophy is very rich now; and well she deserves it. Dear, dear! I seem to see Miss Sophia over again in our Miss Pauline. She was very comical, and so high-spirited and wild, although she'd never do an underhand thing."

"Never?" asked Patty, with a sigh.

"Of course not. What do you take her for? Noble ladies what is ladies don't do mean sort of things."

Patty sighed again.

"What are you sighing for, Miss Patty? I hate to hear young ladies giving way to their feelings in that sort of fashion."

"I was only thinking that you compared Aunt Sophy to Pauline."

"And why shouldn't I? Is it you who want to belittle your sister? Miss Pauline is as high-spirited as ever young lady was, but neither would she do a mean or underhand thing."

Patty suppressed her next sigh. For a long time she did not speak.

"Nurse," she said when she next broke silence, "did you in the whole course of your life ever tell a lie?"

"My word!" cried nurse—"Miss Marjorie, you'll prick your little fingers if you hold the needle like that. This way, lovey. Did I ever tell a lie, Miss Patty? Goodness gracious me! Well, to be sure, perhaps I told a bit of a tarradiddle when I was a small child; but an out-and-out lie—never, thank the Almighty!"

"But what is the difference between a lie and a tarradiddle?"

"Oh, Miss Patty, there's a deal of difference. A tarradiddle is what you say when you are, so to speak, took by surprise. It isn't a lie out and out; it's the truth concealed, I call it. Sometimes it is a mere exaggeration. You say a person is very, very cross when maybe that person is hardly cross at all. I can't quite explain, miss; I suppose there's scarcely any one who hasn't been guilty of a tarradiddle; but a lie—a thought-out lie—never."

"Is a lie so very awful?" asked Patty.

"Awful!" repeated nurse.

She rose solemnly from her seat, went up to Patty, and put her hand under her chin.

"Don't you ever catch me a-seeing you a-doing of it," she said. "I wouldn't own one of you Dales if you told falsehoods. A black lie the Bible speaks of as a thing that ain't lightly forgiven. But, of course, you have never told a lie. Oh, my dear, sweet young lady, you quite frightened me! To think that one of my children could be guilty of a sin like that!"

Patty made no answer.

"I am tired of work," she said; "I am going out."

She flung down the skirt that she was helping to unpick and let the scissors fall to the ground.

"You might put your work tidily away, Miss Patty. You aren't half as useful and helpful as you ought to be."

Patty laid the skirt on a chair and slipped away. Nurse continued her occupation.

"I wonder what the child meant," she thought. "She looked queer when she spoke. But there! with all their faults—and goodness knows they've plenty—they're straight, every one of them. A crooked-minded Dale or a crooked-minded Tredgold would be a person unheard of. Oh, yes, they're straight enough, that's a blessing."

Meanwhile Patty sought her sister.

"It's worse than I thought," she remarked. "It's not even a tarradiddle."

"What do you mean?" asked Briar.

"The lie you told—the lie I am to help you to hide. It's black as ink, and God is very angry with little girls who tell lies. He scarcely can forgive lies. I was talking to nurse, and she explained."

"You don't mean to say that you told her about Pauline?"

"No," answered Patty in a voice of scorn. "I am not quite as bad as that. But she was speaking about Aunt Sophy and how wild she used to be, and she compared her to Paulie, and said that Aunt Sophy never did anything mean or underhand, and that Paulie never did either. I felt as if I could jump, for we know, Briar, what Paulie has done."

"Yes, we know," answered Briar. "And you and I have done very wrong, too. But there is no help for it now, Patty. We can't go back."

"It certainly does seem awful to think of growing up wicked," said Patty. "I don't like it."

"Don't let's talk about it," said Briar. "We'll have to suffer some time, but perhaps not yet. Do you know that the apples are getting ripe, and John wants us to help him to pick them? Oh! and the mulberry-tree, too, is a mass of fruit. What do you say to climbing the apple-trees and shaking down the apples?"

"Say!" cried Patty. "Delicious!"

Without more words the little girls ran off to the orchard, and nurse's remarks with regard to the difference between lies and tarradiddles were forgotten for the time being.

The days went on, but Pen did not forget. There came a morning when, a letter having arrived from Aunt Sophy saying that Pauline was much better—in fact, quite herself again—and that she and both the girls would be home in about a week, the little girl was rendered desperate.

"I has no time to lose," she said to herself. "I am 'termined to go; I am going some fashion or t'other."

On this occasion she took a bolder step than she had yet attempted. She resolved to walk alone the entire distance between The Dales and The Hollies, which was about three miles. Pen was the sort of child who was never troubled by physical fear. She also knew the Forest very well. She had but to slip away; none of her sisters would miss her. Or if nurse wondered where she was, she would conclude that Pen was keeping her elder sisters company. If the girls wondered, they would think she was with nurse. Altogether the feat was easy of accomplishment, and the naughty child determined to go. She started off an hour after breakfast, opened the wicket-gate, let herself out, and began to walk quickly. These were the days of early autumn, when the Forest was looking its best; the trees were beginning to put on their regal dresses of crimson and brown and gold. Already the rich red leaves were dropping to the ground. The bracken was withering to a golden brown, and the heather was a deep purple. Everywhere, too, little bluebells sprang up, looking as if they were making fairy music. There were squirrels, too, darting from bough to bough of the beech-trees; and rabbits innumerable, with white-tipped tails, disappearing into their various holes. A walk in the Forest on this special day was the sort to fascinate some children, but Pen cared for none of these things. Her way lay straight before her; her object was never for a moment forgotten. She meant to reach the sea by some means or other.

She was a somewhat tired and hot little person when at last she appeared outside the broad gravel walk that led to The Hollies; and it so happened that when she entered this walk her courage was put to a severe test, for Lurcher, the farmer's bulldog, happened to be loose. As a rule he was kept tied up. Now, Lurcher was a very discerning person. He attacked beggars in a most ferocious manner, but as to ladies and gentlemen a fierce bout of barking was sufficient. Pen, however, looked like neither a beggar nor a lady or gentleman. Lurcher did not know what to make of Pen. Some one so small and so untidy could scarcely be a visitor. She was much too short and much too stout, and her little legs were bleeding from the thorny brambles that she had come through during her journey. Accordingly Lurcher, with a low growl and a swift bound, pinned poor little Pen by the skirt of her short frock. He was sufficiently a gentleman not to hurt her, but he had not the least idea of letting her go. He pinned her even more firmly when she moved an inch away from him, and when she raised her voice he growled. He not only growled, but he shook her dress fiercely. Already she felt it snap from its waistband under Lurcher's terrible teeth. She was a very brave child, but her present predicament was almost more than she could bear. How long it lasted no one quite knew. Then there came a stride across the gravel, a shout from Farmer King, and Pen was transferred from the ground into his sheltering arms.

"You poor little thing!" he said. "You poor little bit of a lass! Now, you don't tell me you are one of the Dales? You have their eyes—black as black most of them are. Are you a Dale?"

"Course I am," answered Penelope. "I'm Penelope Dale. He's a shocking bad dog. I never thought I could be frightened. I was 'termined to come, but I never thought you kept such a shocking, awful dog as that."

"I am more sorry than I can say, my little dear. I wonder now who let the brute out. He'll catch it from me, whoever he is. Here, Nancy! Hullo, Nancy! Come along here, quick!"

Nancy, looking fresh and smiling, stepped out of the open French window.

"Why," she said when she saw Pen, "wherever did you drop from?"

Pen began to cry.

"I wor 'termined to come," she said. "I wanted to see you most tur'ble bad."

"Poor little thing!" said the farmer. "She's got a bit of a fright. What do you think, Nancy? Lurcher had little miss by her skirt. He'd pinned her, so to speak, and he wouldn't let go, not if she fainted; and she was that brave, little dear, that she didn't do anything but just stood still, with her face as white as death."

"Wor I paled down?" said Pen. "Do tell me if I wor paled down a bit."

"You were as white as death, you poor little pretty," said the farmer; and then he kissed the little girl on her broad forehead, and hurried off to expostulate with regard to Lurcher.

Nancy took Pen into the house, and sat down in a cosy American rocking-chair with the little girl in her lap. She proceeded to gorge her with caramels and chocolates. Pen had never been so much fussed over before; and, truth, to tell, she had seldom enjoyed herself better.

"I wor 'termined—'termined to come," she repeated several times. At last her sobs ceased altogether, and she cuddled up against Nancy and went to sleep in her arms.

Nancy lifted her up and put her on the horse-hair sofa; she laid a rug over her, and then stooped and kissed her. Afterwards she went out and joined her father.

"Whatever brought little miss here?" asked the farmer.

"That's more than I can tell you, father."

"And why don't the others come sometimes?" snapped Farmer King. "They none of 'em come, not even that pretty girl we made so much fuss over, giving her a gold locket and chain. Now, I'd like to find out, Nancy, my girl, if she has ever shown that locket and chain to her haristocratic aunt. Do you suppose the haristocratic lady has set eyes on it?"

Nancy laughed.

"I guess not," she said. "Paulie's a bit of a coward. She wants to know us and yet she don't. She wants to know us behind the aunt's back."

"Left hand, not right hand," said the farmer. "I don't like that sort."

"At any rate she can't come to us at present, father, for Miss Tredgold has taken her to the seaside."

"That's it, is it?" said the farmer, his face clearing. "Then I suppose little miss has come with a message. What did missie say about your friend, Nancy?"

"Nothing. She's asleep at present. I mean to let her have her sleep out, then give her some dinner, and drive her home in the dogcart."

"Do as you like, Nance; only for mercy's sake don't make a fool of yourself over that family, for it strikes me forcibly they're becoming too grand for us."

Nancy said nothing further. She returned to the house and sat down in the room where Penelope slept. Her work-basket was open. She was making a pretty new necktie for herself. Nancy was a very clever workwoman, and the necktie grew under her nimble fingers. Presently she dived into the bottom of the basket and took out a gold thimble with a sapphire top and turquoises round the rim. She slipped it on to the tip of her slender first finger.

"I must send it back again," she said to herself. "I'd have done it before, but Pauline is away."

Just then she was attracted by a sound on the sofa. She turned. Pen's big black eyes were wide open; she was bending forward and gazing at the thimble.

"So you got it after all!" she said.

"Oh, child, how you startled me! What do you mean?"

"Why, that's Aunty Sophy's thimble. I was to get a penny if I found it."

Nancy was silent.

"How did it get into your work-basket?" asked Pen.

"I borrowed it from Paulie, and I'd have given it to her long ere this, but I heard she was away."

"Give it to me," cried Penelope. Her voice quite shook in her eagerness. "Give it to me at once, and I will take it back to her."

"I wish you would, Pen, I am sure; but you must be very careful not to lose it, for it is a real beauty. See, I will put it into this little box, and cover the box up."

Penelope pressed close to Nancy. Nancy placed the thimble in the midst of some pink cotton-wool and looked at it affectionately; then she tied up the little box, put brown paper round it, tied string round that again, and then she held it out to Pen.

"You are quite positive you won't lose it?" she said.

"Positive. I has a big pocket, and no hole in it. See for yourself, there's no hole. Turn it out, will you?"

Penelope's pocket proved to be quite safe, and Nancy, with a qualm at her heart which she could not account for, allowed the little girl to put the thimble therein.

"Well, that is settled," she cried. "And now I want to know what you came for. You are going to have dinner with father and me after a bit."

"No, I'm not," answered Pen. "I'm going home at once."

"But why did you come? Did Pauline send me a message?"

"No, she wouldn't."

"Why not? I've done a great deal for her."

"She's ongrateful," said Pen. "She didn't send no message. I 'spect she'll have forgot you when she comes back."

Nancy's face flamed.

"I can make it a little too hot for her if she does."

"What's making a thing too hot?" asked Penelope.

"Oh, making it so that you squirm and tingle and your heart goes pit-a-pat," replied Nancy. "There! I'm not going to talk any more. If you won't tell me why you came, I suppose you will come into the other room and have some dinner?"

"I won't. I'm going home. As Paulie didn't send you a message, are you going to make it hot for her?"

"That I am. Somebody will come here—somebody I know—to see somebody she knows; and there will be a begging and imploring, and somebody she knows will do nothing for somebody I know. Now, can you take that in?"

"You are very funny," answered Penelope, "but I think I can. I'm glad, and I'm not glad, that I comed. I won't stay to dinner; I'm going straight away home this blessed minute."



CHAPTER XX.

PEN VICTORIOUS.

Penelope managed to reach home unattended. She was tired and draggled and dusty, and also very much scratched. Her sisters received her with whoops of astonishment and welcome. They had not missed her, it is true, but when they saw her coming sadly and sheepishly in at the wicket-gate they concluded that they had. Adelaide was the first to reach her.

"Don't ask me any questions and you'll hear no lies," was Pen's remark. She waved her fat hand as she spoke. "I am going to nursey straight away. I has something I wants to say to nursey. Has the post gone? I want to catch the post immediate."

"You are too queer for anything," said Adelaide; "but go your own way. You'll catch it for being out all by yourself in the woods."

"I won't catch it, but there are others who will," replied Penelope. "And now keep out of my way. I want to find nursey."

She marched in a most defiant and even queenly style towards the house; and the others, after laughing for a moment, returned to their various pursuits and forgot all about her.

When nurse saw Penelope she uttered a groan.

"There you come," she said. "You are a handful! You never turned up at dinner-time, although we looked for you everywhere. Now, where were you hiding?"

"Never mind that, nursey. Get out your writing 'terials."

"Now, whatever does the child mean? Sakes! you are scratched, and your nice new holland frock is all torn, and you are dusty and pale and trembling—as pale and trembling as can be."

"Is it pale I am?" cried Penelope. "Is it? Is it? Nursey, I love you, love you, love you!"

With a flop Penelope's fat arms were flung round nurse's neck; her hot little lips caressed nurse's cheeks.

"Oh," she cried, "how much I love you! Get writing 'terials quick. Get pen and ink and paper, and sit down and write. I will tell you what to say. You must write this instant minute. It is the most 'portant thing in all the world. Write, and be quick. If you don't I'll go to Betty, and she'll do what I want her to do."

"You needn't do that," cried nurse. "You are a queer child, and more trouble than you're worth, but when you are in a bit of a mess I'm not the one to refuse my aid. Who have I to write to?"

"To my darlingest Aunt Sophy."

"My word! What on earth have you got to say to her?"

"Get 'terials and you'll know."

Nurse complied somewhat unwillingly. She produced a portfolio, got out her ink-bottle and pen, dipped the pen in ink, and looked up at Penelope.

"Go on, and be quick," she said. "I can't be fashed with the whims of children. What is it that you want to say?"

"Write, 'Dear, darling Aunt Sophia.'"

"You are too queer!"

Nevertheless nurse put the words on the sheet of paper, and Pen proceeded to deliver herself quickly.

"'I am paled down, and want change of air. My breaf is too quick. My legs is all tored with briers and things. I has got a prickly feeling in my froat, and I gets wet as water all over my hands and round my neck and my forehead. It's 'cos I'm weak, I 'spect.'"

"Miss Penelope," said the nurse, "if those symptoms are correct, it is the doctor you want."

"'I has a doubly-up pain in my tum-tum,'" proceeded Penelope, taking no notice of nurse's interruption. "'I shrieks in my sleep. I wants change of air. I am very poorly. Nursey is writing this, and she knows I am very poorly. I feel sort of as though I could cry. It's not only my body, it's my mind. I has got a weight on my mind. It's a secret, and you ought to know. Send for me quick, 'cos I want change of air.

Pen.'"

"I never wrote a queerer letter," said nurse; "and from the looks of you there seems to be truth in it. You certainly don't look well."

"You will send it, nursey?" asked Pen, trembling with excitement.

"Yes, child; you have dictated it to me, and it shall go by the post. Whether Miss Tredgold will mind a word you say or not remains to be proved. Now leave me, and do for goodness' sake try not to run about wildly any more for to-day at least."

Penelope left the room. She stooped slightly as she walked, and she staggered a little. When she got near the door she coughed. As she reached the passage she coughed more loudly.

"It's my froat," she said in a very sad tone, and she crept down the passage, nurse watching her from the open door of the nursery.

She did not guess that when Penelope turned the last corner she gave a sudden whoop, leapt nearly a foot into the air, and then darted out of the house as fast as she could.

"I 'spect I's done it this time," thought Pen.

Meanwhile in the nursery, after a moment's reflection, nurse added a postscript of her own to Pen's letter.

"Miss Penelope is very queer, and don't look well at all."

That letter was put in the post, and in due time received by Miss Tredgold.

Penelope began to count the hours. She knew that no answer could come for some time after the letter was written. During the next day she went at intervals to visit Betty, and begged her for drinks of vinegar; and as she paid Betty by more and more presents out of Pauline's old bandbox, she found that individual quite amenable. After drinking the vinegar Penelope once again suffered from the "doubly-up pain in her tum-tum." She spoke of her agonies to the others, who pitied her a good deal, and Josephine even presented her with some very precious peppermints for the purpose of removing it. Towards evening she seemed better, and talked continually of the seaside and how she intended to enjoy herself there. And then she suggested that her sisters should come and help her to pack her things. The girls naturally asked why they were to do it, and she replied:

"'Cos I'm going on a journey, and it's most 'portant. None of you are going, but I am."

"You're not going on any journey," said Lucy. "You do talk rubbish."

"What you bet?" asked Penelope, who saw an instant opportunity of making a little money.

"Nothing," replied Lucy. "You are talking rubbish. Get out of my way. I'm very busy."

Pen looked wildly around her. She was in such a state of suppressed excitement that she could stop at nothing. Her sisters were all close at hand. Patty and Briar were sitting as usual almost in each other's pockets. Adelaide, Josephine, Lucy, and Helen made a group apart. Pen thought carefully.

"There's six of 'em," she said to herself. "I ought to make a little money by six of 'em. Look here!" she called out. "You all say I'm not going on a journey to-morrow; I say I am. Will you give me a penny each if I go? Is it done? Is it truly done? If I don't go I'll give you a penny each."

"But you haven't got any pence to give us."

"I will borrow from nursey. I know she'll lend me the money. But I shan't need it, for I am going. Will you give me a penny each if I go?"

"Oh, yes, if you want it," said Adelaide.

"But remember," continued Lucy, "we shall keep you to your part of the bargain if you don't go."

"All right," cried Pen; and, having received the promise, she walked sedately across the grass.

"Six pennies! I'll find them useful at the seaside," she thought. "There's nothing like having a little money of your own. It buys sweetmeats and cakes. I'll tell Aunt Sophy that my froat is so sore, and that I must have constant sweetmeats. Six pennies will get a lot."

She walked more slowly. She was in reality in excellent health; even the vinegar was not doing her much harm.

"How hungry I'll be when I get to the seaside!" she said to herself. "I'll swell out and get very red and very fat. My body will be 'normous. Oh, there's father!"

Mr. Dale was seated near his window. His head was bent as usual over his work.

"Father could give me something," thought Pen. "He could and he ought. I'll ask him. Dad!" she called.

Mr. Dale did not answer.

"Dad!" called Pen again.

He looked up with a fretful expression.

"Go away, my dear," he said. "I am particularly busy."

"I will if you'll give me sixpence."

"Go away."

Pen's father bent again over his book. He forgot Penelope.

"He's sure to give me sixpence if I worrit him long enough," thought the naughty little girl.

She stood close to the window. Suddenly it occurred to her that if she drew down the blind, which she could easily do by pushing her hand inside the window and then planting her fat little person on the window-sill, she would cause a shadow to come before the light on her father's page.

"That will make him look up," she thought. "When he does I'll ask him again for sixpence. I'll tell him I won't go away till I get it."

She sat down on the window-sill, cleverly manipulating the blind, and Mr. Dale found an unpleasant darkness steal over his page.

"Draw up that blind and go away, Penelope," he said. "Do you hear? Go away."

"I will 'mediately you give me sixpence. I will draw up the blind and I'll go away," said Pen.

"I will give you nothing. You are an extremely naughty little girl."

Penelope sat on. Mr. Dale tried to read in the darkening light. Presently he heard a sniff. The sniff grew louder.

"My froat," said Penelope.

He glanced towards her. She was sitting huddled up; her back looked very round.

"Do go away, child. What is wrong?"

"My froat. I want something to moisten it. It is so dry, it hurts me."

"Go and get a drink of water."

"Oh, my froat! Oh, my tum-tum! Oh, my froat!" said Penelope again.

Mr. Dale rose from his seat at last.

"I never was so worried in my life," he said. "What is it, child? Out with it. What is wrong?"

Penelope managed to raise eyes brimful of tears to his face.

"If you knowed that your own little girl was suffering from bad froat and doubly-up tum-tum, and that sixpence would make her well—quite, really, truly well—wouldn't you give it to her?" said Penelope.

"How can sixpence make you well? If you really have a sore throat and a pain we ought to send for the doctor."

"Sixpence is much cheaper than the doctor," said Penelope. "Sixpence will do it."

"How?"

"It will buy peppermints."

"Well, then, here it is, child. Take it and be off."

Penelope snatched it. Her face grew cheerful. She shot up the blind with a deft movement. She jumped from her seat on the window-ledge. She was no longer doubled up.

"Thank you, dad," she said. "Thank you—thank you."

She rushed away.

"I'll have another sixpence to-morrow," she thought. "That's a whole beautiful shilling. I will do fine when I am at the seaside."

Penelope could scarcely sleep that night. She got up early the next morning. She was determined to stand at the gate and watch for the postman. The letters usually arrived about eight o'clock. The postman hove in sight, and Pen rushed to meet him.

"Have you letters—a letter for me?" she asked.

"No, Miss Penelope, but there is one for your nurse."

"It is from Easterhaze," said the child. "Thank you—thank you, posty."

She snatched the first letter away from the old man and darted away with it. Into the nursery she rushed.

"Here it is, nursey. Open it, quick! I am to go; I know I am."

Nurse did open the letter. It was from Miss Tredgold, and it ran as follows:

"DEAR NURSE: Penelope is evidently too much for you. I intend to remain two or three days longer in this pleasant place, so do not expect me home next week. I shall have Penelope here, so send her to me by the first train that leaves Lyndhurst Road to-morrow. Take her to the station and put her into the charge of the guard. She had better travel first-class. If you see any nice, quiet-looking lady in the carriage, put Penelope into her charge. I enclose a postal order for expenses. Wire to me by what train to expect the child."

The letter ended with one or two more directions, but to these Pen scarcely listened. Her face was pale with joy. She had worked hard; she had plotted much; she had succeeded.

"I feel as though I'd like to be really quite good," was her first thought.

Nurse expected that she would be nearly mad with glee; but she left the nursery quietly. She went downstairs quietly. Her sisters were at breakfast. She entered the room and stood before them.

"Pennies, please," she said.

"What do you mean?" asked Briar, who was pouring out coffee.

"Pennies from all of you, quick."

Josephine put on a supercilious face; Lucy sniffed; Helen and Adelaide went on with their breakfast as though nothing had happened.

Penelope came a little nearer.

"Must I speak up?" she said. "Must I ask again? Is you all deaf? I am going to Easterhaze to Aunt Sophy. Darling aunty can't do without me. She has sent for me as she wants me so badly. I'm going by the first train. I am much the most 'portant person in the house, and I's won my bet. I like betting. A penny from you all if you please."

The girls were excited and amazed at Pen's news.

"You are clever," said Briar. "How in the world did you get her to do it?"

"Tum-tum and sore froat," said Penelope bluntly. "Oh! and vinegar and paling down."

"You are really such an incomprehensible child that I am glad Aunt Sophy is going to manage you," was Patty's remark. "Here are your pence. Shall we help you to pack your things?"

"They are a'most packed. I did some myself last night. I took your new little trunk, Briar. I don't 'uppose you'll mind."

Briar did mind, but she knew it was useless to expostulate.

By eleven o'clock Penelope was off to Lyndhurst Road station. By twelve o'clock she was in charge of a red-faced old lady. In five minutes' time she was en route for Easterhaze. The old lady, whose name was Mrs. Hungerford, began by considering Pen a plain and ordinary child; but she soon had reason to change her views, for Pen was not exactly plain, and was certainly by no means ordinary. She stared fixedly at the old lady, having deliberately left her own seat and planted herself on the one opposite.

"Vinegar will do it," she said.

"What are you talking about, child?" asked Mrs. Hungerford.

"You are so red—such a deep red, I mean—much the same as chocolate. Vinegar will do it. Take three small glasses a day, and pay your Betty with vulgar sort of things out of an old bandbox."

"The unfortunate child is evidently insane," was Mrs. Hungerford's thought. She spoke, therefore, in a reassuring way, and tried to look as though she thought Pen's remarks the most natural in the world.

Pen, however, read through her.

"You don't believe me," she said. "Now you listen. I look a pale little girl, don't I? I am nearly eight years old. I don't see why a girl of eight is to be trampled on; does you? I wanted to go, and I am going. It's tum-tum-ache and sore froat and paling cheeks that has done it. If you want to get what you don't think you will get, remember my words. It's vinegar does it, but it gives you tum-ache awful."

The old lady could not help laughing.

"Now, I wonder," she said, opening a basket of peaches, "whether these will give tum-ache."

Penelope grinned; she showed a row of pearly teeth.

"Guess not," she said.

The old lady put the basket between Penelope and herself.

"I have also got sandwiches—very nice ones—and little cakes," she said. "Shall we two have lunch together, even if my face is like chocolate?"

"It's a beauty face, even if it is, and I love you," said Penelope. "I think you are quite 'licious. Don't you like to look like chocolate?"

The old lady made no answer. Penelope dived her fat hand into the basket of peaches and secured the largest and ripest.

"It is the best," she said. "Perhaps you ought to eat it."

"I think I ought, but if you don't agree with me you shall have it."

Penelope hesitated a moment.

"You wouldn't say that if you didn't mean me to eat it," she said. "Thank you."

She closed her teeth in the delicious fruit and enjoyed herself vastly. In short, by the time Mrs. Hungerford and her curious charge reached Easterhaze it seemed to them both that they had known each other all their days.

Miss Tredgold, Verena, and Pauline met the train. The girls looked rosy and sunburnt. This was an ideal moment for Penelope. She almost forgot Mrs. Hungerford in her delight at this meeting with her relatives. But suddenly at the last moment she remembered.

"How are you, Aunt Sophy? I am scrumptiously glad to see you. How are you, Verena? How are you, Paulie? Oh! please forgive me; I must say good-bye to the chocolate old lady."

And the chocolate old lady was hugged and kissed several times, and then Pen was at liberty to enjoy the delights of the seaside.

The lodgings where Miss Tredgold was staying were quite a mile from the station. Pen enjoyed her drive immensely. The look of the broad sea rolling on to the shore had a curious effect upon her strange nature. It touched her indescribably. It filled that scarcely awakened little soul of hers with longings. After all, it might be worth while to be good. She did not know why the sea made her long to be good; nevertheless it did. Her face became really pale.

"Are you tired, dear?" asked Miss Tredgold, noticing the curious look on the expressive little face.

"Oh, no, not that," replied Pen; "but I have never seen the sea before."

Miss Tredgold felt that she understood. Pauline also understood. Verena did not think about the matter. It was Verena's habit to take the sweets of life as they came, to be contented with her lot, to love beauty for its own sake, to keep a calm mind and a calm body through all circumstances. She had accepted the sea as a broad, beautiful fact in her life some weeks ago. She was not prepared for Pen's emotion, nor did she understand it. She kept saying to herself:

"Nurse is right after all; it was not mere fancy. Little Penelope is not well. A day or two on the sands in this glorious air will soon put her straight."

Pauline, however, thought that she did understand her little sister. For to Pauline, from the first day she had arrived at Easterhaze, the sea had seemed to cry to her in one incessant, reiterating voice:

"Come, wash and be clean. Come, lave yourself in me, and leave your naughtiness and your deceits and your black, black lies behind."

And Pauline felt, notwithstanding her present happiness and her long days of health and vigor and glee, that she was disobeying the sea, for she was not washing therein, nor getting herself clean in all that waste of water. The old cry awoke again in her heart with an almost cruel insistence.

"Come, wash and be clean," cried the sea.

"I declare, Pauline, you are looking almost as pale as your sister," said Miss Tredgold. "Well, here we are. Now, Pen," she added, turning to Penelope, "I hope you will enjoy yourself. I certainly did not intend to ask you to join us, but as nurse said you were not well, and as your own extremely funny letter seemed to express the same thing, I thought it best to ask you here."

"And you did quite right, Aunty Sophy," said Penelope.

Then the look of the sea faded from her eyes, and she became once again a suspicious, eager, somewhat deceitful little girl. Once again the subtle and naughty things of life took possession of her. At any cost she must keep herself to the front. At any cost she must assume the power which she longed for. She was no longer a nursery child. She had won her way about coming to the seaside; now she must go still further. She must become a person of the greatest moment to Aunt Sophia. Aunt Sophia held the keys of power; therefore Penelope determined to devote herself to her.

The lodgings were extremely cheerful. They were in a terrace overhanging the sea. From the big bay-windows of the drawing-room you could see the sunsets. There was a glorious sunset just beginning when Penelope walked to the window and looked out. Miss Tredgold had secured the best rooms in this very handsome house, and the best rooms consisted of a double drawing-room, the inner one of which was utilized as a dining-room; a large bedroom overhead in which Verena and Pauline slept; and a little room at the back which she used for herself, and in which now she had ordered a cot to be placed for Penelope.