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

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

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

Feeling the honour deeply she stooped and kissed him, and her eyes followed the little square figure wistfully as it trotted down the passage to the nursery; when it disappeared she turned into her room again with a warmer feeling about her heart than she had known for many a day.

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

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

She hurried David into the garden, and up to the pig-sty—empty no longer! There was Antony as lively as ever, and ready to greet his master with a cheerful grunt!

"There," she said, in the intervals of a dance of triumph, "I and Andrew fetched him home. Father said we might. I asked Miss Unity to ask him to 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 at Nearminster was Miss Unity, for he had a long memory for benefits as well as for injuries.



CHAPTER SIX.

ETHELWYN.

"Oh, dear me!" said Pennie, looking at herself in the glass over the nursery mantel-shelf; "it is ugly, and so uncomfortable. I wish I needn't wear it."

"It," was Pennie's new winter bonnet, and certainly it was not very becoming; it was made of black plush with a very deep brim, out of which her little pointed face peered mournfully, and seemed almost swallowed up. There was one exactly like it for Nancy, and the bonnets had just come from Miss Griggs, the milliner at Nearminster, where they had been ordered a week ago. "Do you come and try yours on, Miss Pennie," said Nurse 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 a prettier bonnet than the last; she looked in the glass, and then followed the exclamation with which this chapter begins.

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

"They're both just as ugly as they can be," said Pennie mournfully; "but mine'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 I keep on catching at the strings in front with my chin."

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

"Very much indeed," said Pennie, who had now taken off the bonnet and was looking at it ruefully. "There was one gypsy who had a red handkerchief, which looked much prettier than this ugly old thing."

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

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

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

"I've no time for argufying, miss," she said as she put the bonnets carefully back into their boxes. "I'm sure my mistress will like them very much. They're just as she ordered them." And so the subject was dismissed, 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 be dressed alike, for the same things did not suit them at all. Probably this very bonnet which was such a trial to Pennie would be a suitable frame for Nancy's round rosy face, and look quite nice. It was certainly hard. Pennie loved all beautiful things, from the flowers in the garden and fields to the yellow curls on Cicely's ruffled head, and it often troubled her to feel that with pretty things all round her she did not look pretty herself. So the winter bonnet cast quite a gloom on her for the moment, and although it may seem a small trial to sensible people it was a large one to Pennie. How often she had sighed over the straight little serge frocks which she and Nancy always wore, and secretly longed for brighter colours and more flowing lines, and now this ugly dark bonnet had come to make things worse. It would make her feel like a blot in a fair white copybook, to walk about in it when the beautiful clean snow covered the earth. What a pity that everything in the world was not pretty!

Pennie's whole soul went out towards beauty, and anyone with a pretty face might be sure of her loving worship and admiration. "All is not gold that glitters, Miss Pennie," Nurse would say, or, "Handsome is that handsome does;" but it made no impression at all; Pennie continued to feel sure that what looked pretty must be good, and that a fair outside 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 that gypsy. Such a lovely colour! And then there would be no tormenting "caught back" feeling when the wind blew, which made it necessary to press the chin firmly on the strings to keep that miserable bonnet on at all. And besides these advantages it would be much cheaper, for she had heard her mother say that Miss Griggs' things were so expensive; "but then," Mrs Hawthorn had added, "the best of them is that they do last." Pennie thought that decidedly "the worst" of them, for she and Nancy would have to wear those bonnets for at least two winters before they showed any signs of wearing out—indeed, they had been made rather large in the head on purpose.

But it was of no use to think about it any more now, so with a little sigh she turned away and went back to her dolls, prepared to treat the ugly one, Jemima, with even more than usual severity. Jemima was the oldest doll of the lot, made of a sort of papier-mache; her hair was painted black and arranged in short fat curls; her face, from frequent washing and punishment, had become of a leaden hue, and was full of dents and bruises; her nose was quite flat, and she had lost one arm; in her best days she had been plain, but she was now hideous. And no wonder! Poor Jemima had been through enough trials to mar the finest beauty. She had been the victim at so many scenes of torture and executions that there was scarcely a noted sufferer in the whole of the History 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 was hanged as a murderer! In an unusually bloodthirsty moment Ambrose had once suggested really putting out her eyes with red-hot gauffering-irons, but this was overruled, and Jemima's eyes, pale blue and 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 pet the Lady Dulcibella, who was a wax doll with a lovely pink and white complexion, and real golden hair and eyelashes. She had everything befitting a doll of her station and appearance—a comfortable bed with white curtains, an arm-chair with a chintz cushion, private brushes and combs, and an elegant travelling trunk. Her life altogether was a contrast to Jemima's, who never went to bed at all, and had no possessions except one ragged old red dress; nevertheless, it is possible that Dulcibella with all her elegance would have been the more easily spared of the two.

Nancy soon joined Pennie, and the little girls became so absorbed in their play that they were still busy when tea-time came; they hurried down-stairs to the schoolroom, for Miss Grey was particular about punctuality, and found that David and Ambrose were already seated, each with 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, and they generally had something wonderful to tell her saved up for this occasion—things which had occurred during their walk, or perhaps exciting details about the various pet animals. Sometimes she in her turn had news for them, and when Pennie saw the open letter she changed her intention of saying that the bonnets had come home, and waited quietly. Perhaps mother had something interesting to tell.

Pennie was right, for Mrs Hawthorn presently made an announcement of such a startling character that the new bonnets sank at once into insignificance.

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

Now such a thing had never happened before, and it was so astonishing that 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 they began to pour forth a torrent of questions:— What is she like? Where does 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 all about it. This little girl lives in London. Her mother is a very old friend of mine, though you have never seen her, and I have asked her to let her little daughter come here for a visit. She is about Pennie's age, 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're both pretty."

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

"I know," said Ambrose, gulping a piece of bread and butter very quickly in his haste to be first. "Let me say. It means taking care of people 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 eyes thoughtfully fixed on the pile of bread and butter.

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

"Well," said Mrs Hawthorn, "I think Davie's explanation is about the best, for hospitality does mean giving our friends the best we have. But it means something more, for you might give Ethelwyn the biggest piece of everything, and yet she might not enjoy her visit at all. But if you try to make her happy in the way she likes best, and consider her amusement and comfort before your own, you will be hospitable, and I shall be very pleased with you all. I expect, however, she will be chiefly Pennie and Nancy's companion, because, as she has no brothers and 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 and noisy."

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

The children continued to ask questions until there was nothing else to be learnt about Ethelwyn, and she was made the subject of conversation after their mother left the room, and until tea was over. They made various 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 pigs and rabbits," said Pennie rather scornfully, for the very name of Ethelwyn 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 grows owdacious."

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

"Ethelbert, not Ethelwyn, Pennie," Miss Grey would say for the twentieth time, and then with a little impatient shake Pennie would wake up from her day-dreams, and try to fix her mind on the matter in hand. But it was really difficult, for those kings seemed to follow each other so fast, and to do so much the same things, and even to have names so much alike, that it was almost impossible to have clear ideas about them. Pennie's attention soon wandered away again to a more attractive subject: Ethelwyn! it was certainly a nice name to have, and seemed to mean all sorts of interesting things; how small and poor the name of Pennie sounded after it! shortened to Pen, as it was sometimes, it was worse still. No doubt Ethelwyn would be pretty. She would have long yellow hair, Pennie decided, not plaited up in a pig-tail like her own and Nancy's, but falling over her shoulders in a nice fluffy way like the Lady Dulcibella's. Pennie often felt sorry that there was no fluffiness 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 do otherwise under Nurse's vigorous treatment, for she went on the principle that anything rough was untidy. Even Dickie's hair, which wanted to curl, was sternly checked, and kept closely cropped like a boy's; it was only Cicely's that was allowed at present to do as it liked and wave about in soft little rings of gold.

Pennie made her plans and thought her thoughts, and often went to bed with Ethelwyn's imaginary figure so strongly before her that she had wonderful dreams. Ethelwyn took the shape of the "Fair One with the Golden Locks," in the fairy book, and stood before her with yellow hair quite down to her feet—beautiful, gracious, smiling. Even in the daylight Pennie could not quite get rid of the idea, and so, long before she had seen her, the name of Ethelwyn came to mean, in her romantic little mind, everything that was lovely and desirable.

And at last Ethelwyn came. It was an exciting moment, for the children were so unused to strangers that they were prepared to look upon their visitor with deep curiosity. They were nevertheless shy, and it had occurred to David and Nancy that the cupboard under the stairs would be a favourable position from which to take cautious observations when she arrived.

Ambrose, therefore, and Pennie were the only two ready to receive their guest, for Dickie was busy with her own affairs in the nursery; they waited in the schoolroom with nervous impatience, and presently the drawing-room bell rang twice, which was always a signal that the children 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 found it difficult to go in, and stood on the mat for some minutes before she could make up her mind to turn the handle. She looked down at her pinafore and saw that it was a good deal crumpled, and an unlucky ink-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 from her face. Altogether she felt unequal to meeting the unknown but elegant Ethelwyn.

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

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

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

"Now I shall give Ethelwyn into your care, Pennie," continued Mrs Hawthorn. "You may take her into the garden and show her the pets, or if 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 at tea-time."

The two little girls left the room together, and Pennie led the way silently to the garden, giving furtive glances now and then at her visitor. She felt sure that Ethelwyn would be surprised and pleased, because mother had said that in London people seldom had gardens; but her companion made no remark at all, and Pennie put the question which had 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 you called for short?"

"I'm always called Ethelwyn. Father and mother don't approve of names being shortened."

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

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

"What's your best dress?"

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

"Mine's velveteen," said Ethelwyn, "the new shade, you know—a sort of mouse colour. Nurse says I look like a picture in it. Do you always wear pinafores?"

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

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

Ethelwyn looked round, with her little pointed nose held rather high in the 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 her forcibly, and she now saw for the first time that to a stranger the Wilderness might not be very attractive. There were, of course, no flowers now, and Dickie had tumbled a barrowful of leaves on to the middle of Pennie's border, which was further adorned by a heap of oyster shells, with which David intended some day to build a grotto. It looked more like a rubbish heap than a garden, and the close neighbourhood of the well did not improve it. There was only one cheerful object in the Wilderness just now, and that was a little monthly rose-bush in Dickie's plot of ground, which, in spite of most unfavourable circumstances, bore two bright pink blossoms.

After glancing scornfully round, Ethelwyn stooped and stretched out her hand 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'd never know where they'd gone."

Pennie could not see anything funny in this idea at all, but she remembered what Mrs Hawthorn had said about making their guest happy in her 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 little roses off the tree, but tried to excuse her in her own mind. She did not understand, perhaps, how much Dickie wanted them. Such a pretty graceful creature as Ethelwyn could not do anything purposely unkind.

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

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

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

"Do you like animals?"

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

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

"A pig!" exclaimed Ethelwyn in rather a squeaky voice of surprise; "what a 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, for she saw her brother's face getting crimson with anger, "and it's beautifully clean and clever. It shakes hands."

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

"Well," said Ethelwyn as the children all moved away, David rather sulkily, 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 a little 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 high wind, and it blew right down on the pavement from the very tip-top of the 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, and I 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 it always appeared that she had something far better at home. Even Antony's lively talents failed to move her, and, though she could not say 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 more successful entertainment, for as long as the children would swing her Ethelwyn was content to be swung. When, however, Nancy boldly remarked:

"It's someone else's turn now," she was not quite so pleased, and soon said 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 slighting to say even of the Lady Dulcibella, who was sitting prepared to receive visitors 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 it had been loosened by constant execution.

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

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

"It's only Jemima," said Pennie. She was vexed that Ethelwyn had seen her at all, and there was something painful in having her held up to the general 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 last week."

"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 heard of them. But I know one thing: if she were mine I'd soon put her into real flames."

The rest of the day went on in much the same way, and the children found it more and more difficult to amuse their guest. It was astonishing to find how very soon she tired of any game. "What shall we do now?" was her constant cry; and it grew so tiresome that Nancy and the boys at last went off to play together, and left her entirely to Pennie. And this arrangement grew to be a settled thing, for it really was almost impossible to play the usual games with Ethelwyn; there was no sort of check on her overbearing ways, because "she was a visitor," and must do as she liked. Now, she was a very poor hand at "making up," and did not understand "Shipwrecks" or "Desert Islands" in the least; but this would not have mattered if she had been willing to learn. Joined, however, to complete 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 be captain," she would exclaim at once. This had always been Ambrose's part, and he rather prided himself on his knowledge of nautical affairs, gathered from a wide acquaintance with Captain Marryat's stories. He gave it up politely to Ethelwyn, however, and the game began. But in two minutes she would say: "I'm tired of being captain; I'd rather be Indian savages." Indian savages was being performed with great spirit by Nancy, but the change was made, and the game went on, until Ethelwyn cast an envious eye upon Dickie, who, with a small pail and broom, was earnestly scrubbing at the carpet, under the impression that she was a cabin-boy washing the deck of a ship. "I should like to be cabin-boy," said Ethelwyn.

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

"Me will be cabin-boy," was all she said when Pennie tried to persuade her.

"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 broom so."

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

Things did not go on pleasantly at Easney just now, and the longer Ethelwyn stayed the more frequent became the quarrels; she had certainly brought strife and confusion with her, and by degrees there came to be a sort of division amongst the children. Pennie and Ethelwyn walked apart, and looked on with dignified superiority, while the others played the old games with rather more noise than usual. Pennie tried to think she liked this, but sometimes she would look wistfully after her merry brothers and sisters and feel half inclined to join them; the next minute, 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 boys so long without disagreement before Ethelwyn came. Of course these quarrels were all their fault, for in Pennie's eyes Ethelwyn could do no wrong; if sometimes it was impossible to help seeing that she was greedy and 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 in other people, and by degrees she thought much more lightly of them than she had ever done before.

For Ethelwyn had gained a most complete influence over her, partly by her beauty, and partly by her coaxing, flattering ways. It was all so new to Pennie; and, though she was really a sensible little girl, she loved praise and caresses overmuch; like many wiser people, she could not judge anyone harshly who seemed to admire her.

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



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE CHINESE MANDARIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first day at Nearminster was fine and bright, and the children found plenty 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 watched her buy a chicken, fresh eggs, and a cauliflower, which she carried home herself in a brown basket. Then in the afternoon Bridget was allowed to take the children into the town that they might see the shops, and that Pennie might spend her money. For she had brought with her the contents of her money-box, which amounted to fivepence-halfpenny, and intended to lay out this large sum in presents for everyone at home. It was an anxious 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 puckered with care and her purse clutched tightly in her hand. Ethelwyn's advice, which might have been useful under these circumstances, was quite the reverse; for the suggestions she made were absurdly above Pennie's means, and only confusing to the mind.

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

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

Ethelwyn was very impatient long before the shopping was done.

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

But Pennie only shook her head, and would not even look at chocolate creams 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 Unity read aloud. It was not a very amusing book, and Ethelwyn, who had spent all 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, she expressed her displeasure freely.

"I can't bear stopping here," she said. "It's a dull, ugly old place, I think 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 was beginning to be just a little tired of hearing so much about London.

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

Then her idle glance fell on the clock. Would it always be twelve o'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 bald head and a small patch of hair on each side of it; his face, which was broad, had no features to speak of, and yet bore an expression of feeble good-nature. Ethelwyn knew that the merest touch would set his head nodding in a helpless manner, and she suddenly felt a great longing to do it. But that was strictly forbidden; no one must touch the mandarin except Miss Unity; and, though she was generally quite willing to make him perform, Ethelwyn did not feel inclined to ask her. She wanted to do it herself. "If she would only go out of the room," thought the child, "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 the kitchen about the preserving?"

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

"Look, Pennie! look!" she cried.

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

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

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

There he lay, his poor foolish head rolling about on the carpet, and his body some distance off. Hopelessly broken, a ruined mandarin, he would never nod any more!

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

"Oh, Pennie!" she cried, "what shall I do?" for she was really afraid of Miss Unity.

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

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

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

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

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

"But he is," replied Pennie; "and even if he can be mended I don't suppose he'll ever nod like he used to."

"Are you going to tell her we broke him?" asked Ethelwyn after a short pause.

Pennie stared.

"We didn't break him," she said; "it was you, and of course you'll tell her."

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

"But you'll have to say," continued Pennie, "because directly he's touched 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 tell her before I'll never never speak to you again, and I won't have you for my 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 Ethelwyn regained her old place in the window-seat and turned her head away.

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

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

"If Ethelwyn would only tell," thought Pennie, and there was such yearning anxiety in her face as she watched Miss Unity's movements that presently the old lady observed it, and looked curiously at her through her spectacles.

"Do you want anything, Penelope?" she asked, and as she spoke she stretched out her hand to the mantel-piece, for the mandarin was a trifle out of his usual place. She moved him gently a little nearer the clock; Pennie's expression changed to one of positive agony, and the mandarin's head fell immediately with a sharp "click" on to the marble! Clasping her hands, Pennie turned involuntarily towards Ethelwyn. Now she must speak. But Ethelwyn was quite silent, and did not even turn her 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 looked the very picture of guilt.

Of course Ethelwyn would speak now. But there was no sound from the window-seat.

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

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

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

The little voice struggled and fought in Pennie's breast to make itself heard: "I didn't do it, I didn't do it," it cried out wildly. With a resolute gulp she kept it down, but the effort was almost too great, and Miss Unity's grave face was too much to bear. She burst into tears and ran out of the room. Then hurrying upstairs she plunged her head into the side of the big bed where she and Ethelwyn slept together, and cried bitterly. Unjustly accused, disappointed, betrayed by her best friend— the world was a miserable place, Pennie thought, and happiness impossible ever again. There was no one to take her part—Ethelwyn was deceitful and unkind; and as she remembered how she had loved and worshipped her, the tears flowed faster. How could she, could she have done it? Then looking back, she saw how wilfully she had shut her eyes to Ethelwyn's faults, plain enough to everyone else. That was all over now: she had broken something beside the mandarin that day, and that was Pennie's belief in her. It was quite gone; she could never love her the least little bit again, beautiful and coaxing as she might be; like the mandarin, she had fallen all the lower because she had once stood so high.

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

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

The next day passed sorrowfully for Pennie, who felt a heavy cloud of undeserved disgrace resting upon her. Whenever she saw Miss Unity glance at the empty space on the mantel-piece, she felt as guilty as though she really had broken the mandarin, and longed for an opportunity of justifying herself. But there was no chance of that; the day went on and Miss Unity asked no questions, and behaved just as usual to the little 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 quite close to her and hold her hand; but Pennie was proof against all this now. It had no effect upon her at all, and she even looked forward with a feeling of positive relief to the next day, when she would say good-bye to the once-adored Ethelwyn.

And the time came at last; smiling, nodding, and tossing her yellow hair, Ethelwyn got into the train which was to take her away from Nearminster, and Pennie stood at Miss Unity's side on the platform, gazing seriously after her from the depths of the plush bonnet. In her hand she held almost unconsciously a large packet of sweets which Ethelwyn had thrust into it just before entering the carriage; but there was 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 Easney and fetch Pennie home, and she stationed herself at the window a good hour before they could possibly arrive, ready to catch the first glimpse of 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 about excitedly. She was so glad to see them. There was mother, and there was Nancy, dear old Nancy, in the black plush bonnet, which was now a far more pleasant object to Pennie than the smart blue one she had lately envied. Now the carriage was stopping, and Nancy was lowering one stout determined leg to the step, clutching mother's umbrella and a doll in her arms. Pennie stayed no longer, but rushed down-stairs into the 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 said presently 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 never really been at home during Ethelwyn's visit to Easney, and was now going back again—the real old Pennie once more. So she only hugged her sister for reply, and both the little girls went and sat in the window-seat together, while their mother and Miss Unity were talking.

But soon Nancy's observant glance, roving round the room, fell on the empty 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 to see him wag his head when she went to Nearminster.

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

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

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

"I hope not," said Mrs Hawthorn, leaning forward and looking earnestly 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 was to be able at last to stand straight up, and answer triumphantly with a clear conscience, "No!"

At that little word everyone looked relieved except Miss Unity, and her face 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 she really never had asked the child; she had taken it for granted, judging only 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 she went up to Pennie and kissed her.

"I am sorry I called you deceitful, Pennie," she said, "but I am very glad to find I was wrong. When I look at the mandarin now, I shall not so much mind his being broken, because he will remind me that you are a good and honourable child."

Now the cloud was gone which had made Pennie's sky so dark, and all was bright again; the drive back to Easney, which she always enjoyed, was on this occasion simply delightful. Though the afternoon was dull and foggy, and there was a little drizzling rain, everything looked pleasant and 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 got to the white gate, there were Ambrose and David waving their caps and shouting welcome. How delightful to be at home again—without Ethelwyn!

Pennie rushed about, hugging everybody and everything she happened to meet, animals and human beings alike, till she became quite tiresome in her 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 a too-energetic embrace. Pennie looked round for something fresh to caress, and her eye fell on the Lady Dulcibella sitting in her arm-chair by the dolls' house. There was a satisfied simper on her pink face, as though she waited for admiration; she held her little nose high in the air, and one could almost hear her say, "How very vulgar!" Pennie turned from her with a shudder, and picked up Jemima, who was lying on the 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 think she 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 to the little green barrow full of sticks which she had just wheeled into the 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 a broken-backed chair, and Andrew's dinner upon it tied up in a blue checked handkerchief. Bending over his pots and mould by the window in his tall black hat, and looking as brown and dried-up as everything round him, was Andrew himself, and Dickie stood opposite, warmly muffled up, 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 talk sometimes when he was silent for everyone else; so, although she very seldom understood his answers, they held frequent conversations, which seemed quite satisfactory on both sides.

Her questions to-day about the circus had been called forth by the fact that she had seen, when out walking with Nurse, a strange round white house in a field near the village. On asking what it was, she had been told 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 girls should not ask so many questions. Dickie felt this to be unsatisfactory, and she accordingly made further inquiries on the first opportunity.

She laid her dry sticks neatly in the corner, and grasping the handles of her barrow, stood facing Andrew silently, who did not raise his grave long face from his work; he did not look encouraging, but she was quite used to that.

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

"Well, you see, missie," replied Andrew, "I lost the best thing I had there, 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 determined manner.

Andrew took off his hat, and feebly scratched his head; he looked appealingly at the little figure on the barrow as though he would gladly have been excused the task, but though placid, the round face was calmly expectant.

"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; "but wherever she be, she ain't not to call a little gal now, missie. She wur 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 this time."

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

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

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

"Well, missie," began Andrew with a sigh, "it wur like this. After her mother 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' the folks' boots an' shoes. Mollie wur a lovin' little thing, an' oncommon sensible in her ways. She'd sit at my feet an' make-believe to be sewin' the bits of leather together, an' chatter away as merry as a wren. Then when I took home a job, she'd come too an' trot by my side holdin' me tight by one finger—a good little thing she was, an' all the folks in the village was fond of her, but she always liked bein' with me best—bless her 'art, that she did."

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

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

"It wur like this, missie," resumed Andrew. "One day there come a circus 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 ladies flyin' 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 stumpy black goloshes.

"Someone had giv' me a scrap of red leather, an' I'd made her a pair of boots out of it," said Andrew; "they didn't cost me nothin' but the work—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 go round so fast, an' the people on their backs cuttin' all manner of capers, just as if they wur on dry ground. She hid her face in my weskit, an' wouldn't look up; but I coaxed her a bit, an' when she did she wur rarely pleased. She clapped her hands, an' her cheeks wur red with 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, and yet as though he scarcely saw her. She hugged herself with her little crossed arms, and murmured confidentially, "Dickie will go to the circus too."

"There wur a chum of mine sittin' next," continued Andrew, "an' by and by, when the place was gettin' very hot, an' the sawdust the horses threw up with their heels was fit to choke yer, he says to me, 'Old chap,' he says, 'come out an' take a glass of summat jest to wet yer whistle.'

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

Andrew coughed hoarsely but went on again after a minute, speaking more to himself than Dickie—who, indeed, did not understand nearly all he had been saying.

"When I got into the 'Blue Bonnet' there wur three or four more of my chums 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 at speakin'—he'll tell us the rights on it.' An' before I knew a'most I wur sittin' in my usual place next the fire, with a glass of beer in my hand. I wur pleased, like a fool, to think I could speak better nor any of 'em; an' I went on an' on, an' it wasn't till I heard the clock strike that I thought as how I'd left my little gal alone in the circus for a whole hour. I got up pretty quick then, for I thought she'd be frighted, but not that she could come to any harm. So I went back straight 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 hands with a despairing gesture—"gone, an' the woman too! I've never seen my little gal since that day."

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

"Lost, missie! lost!" said Andrew shaking his head mournfully. "I sha'n't never see her no more now. Parson he was very kind, an' offered a reward, an' set the perlice to work to find her. 'Twarn't all no good. So I giv' up the cobblin' an' went about the country doin' odd jobs, 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's how I lost my little gal, an' it's nigh twenty years ago."

At this moment Nurse's voice was heard outside calling for Dickie, and Andrew's whole manner changed at the sound. He thrust the red handkerchief into his pocket, clapped his hat firmly over his eyes, and bent 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; he don't favour other people much with it."

On their way to the house Dickie did her best to tell Nurse all she had heard from Andrew; but it was not very clear, and left her hearer in rather a confused state of mind. There was something about a 'ittle gal, and red boots, and a circus, and something that was lost; but whether it was the red boots that were lost, or the little girl, was uncertain. However, Nurse held up her hands at proper intervals and exclaimed, "Only fancy!" "Gracious me!" and so on, as if she understood perfectly; and when Dickie came to the last sentence this was really the case, 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 at home with poor Nursie and baby."

It seemed to Dickie that they always said she was too little when she wanted to do anything nice, but if ever she cried or was naughty they said she was too big: "Oh, fie, Miss Dickie! a great girl like you!" If she was a great girl she ought to go to the circus; and she repeated firmly, "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 children came in from their walk quite full of it, and of all the wonderful things they had seen in the village. Outside the blacksmith's forge there was a great bill pasted, which showed in bright colours the brilliant performance of "Floretta the Flying Fairy" on horseback; there was also a full-length portrait of Mick Murphy the celebrated clown.

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

The circus was to stop two days—might the children go to-morrow afternoon?

There was a breathless silence amongst them whilst this question was being decided, and mother said something to Miss Grey in French; but after a little consultation it was finally settled that they were to go. Dickie had listened to it all, leaving her rice-pudding untasted; now she stretched out her short arm, and, pointing with her spoon at her mother, 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 stay at 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 up one fat shoulder, she murmured rather defiantly:

"Dickie will ask father."

The next day was Saturday—sermon day, and the vicar was writing busily in his study when he heard some uncertain sounds outside, as though some little 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 on her 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 it impossible to send Dickie away if she once succeeded in getting into his study.

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

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

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

"Dickie got no yed boots."

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

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

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

For answer Dickie pursed-up her lips, looked up in his face, and began to 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 and looking at her. "I wonder what you've got into your head. Wouldn't Dickie like to run upstairs now?"

But she only swung herself backwards and forwards on his knee and repeated 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 question were answered, and the sermon must really be finished. The vicar looked gravely at her and spoke slowly and impressively:

"If Dickie is a good little girl, and will go upstairs to the nursery directly, and stay there, father will ask if she may go and see the gee-gees."

Dickie got down and trotted away obediently, for she thought she had gained her point; but alas later on, when mother was appealed to, she was 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, and Nurse could not be spared—Dickie must stay at home and be a good little girl.

Stay at home she must, as they were all against her; but to be a good little girl was quite another thing, and I am sorry to say it was very far from her intention. If she were not taken to the circus she would be as naughty a little girl as she possibly could. So when she had seen the others go off, all merry and excited, leaving her in the dull nursery, she threw herself flat on her face, drummed with her feet on the floor, and screamed. At every fresh effort which Nurse made to soothe 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 by experience that solitude was the only cure, so after a while she took Cicely into the next room and shut the door. For some time Dickie went on 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 she lifted her face up from the floor with big tears on her cheeks and listened. Hark! what was that funny noise? Boom boom! boom! and then a sort of trampling. It was the circus in the field close by, and presently other strange sounds reached her ear. She looked at the door leading into the bed-room—it was fast shut, and Nurse was walking up and down, singing to the baby in a low soothing tone. Dickie got up from the floor and stood upright with sudden resolve shining in her eyes: she would go to the circus in spite of them all!

Fortune favours the disobedient sometimes, as well as the brave, and she met no one to ask where she was going on her journey through the passages; when she came to the top of the stairs she saw that the hall was empty and silent too—only the dog Snuff lay coiled up on the mat like a rough brown ball. He had not been allowed to go to the circus either. She went slowly down, holding by the balusters and bringing both feet carefully on to each step; as she passed him Snuff opened one bright eye, and, watching her, saw that she went straight to the cupboard under the stairs, where the children's garden coats and hats were kept. There they hung, five little suits, each on its own peg, and with its own pair of goloshes on the ground beneath. Dickie's things were on the lowest peg, so that she might reach them easily and dress herself without troubling anyone. She struggled into the small grey coat, tied the bonnet firmly under her fat chin, and sat down on the lowest stair to put on the goloshes. Snuff got up, sniffed at her, and gave a short bark of pleasure, for he felt quite sure now that she was going into the garden; but Snuff was wrong this time, as he soon found when he trotted after her. Dickie had wider views, and though she went out of the garden door, which stood open, she turned into a path leading to the front of the house and marched straight down the drive. Through the white gate they went together, the little grey figure and the little brown one, and along the village street. It was more deserted than usual, for everyone was either in the circus or gaping at the outside of it, and Dickie and her companion passed on unquestioned. Soon they reached the field where the tent and some gaily-painted caravans stood; but here came an unexpected difficulty. Which was the circus? Dickie stood still and studied the question with large round eyes, and her finger in her mouth, Snuff looking up at her wistfully.

Nearest to them there was a large travelling caravan, with windows and curtains, and smoke coming out of a funnel in the roof; its sides were brightly decorated with pictures of horses, and of wonderfully beautiful ladies jumping through hoops, and there was also a picture of a funny gentleman with red patches on his face. This must be the circus, Dickie decided 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 gave it a push and looked in. Things never turn out to be much like what we have expected, and it was so in Dickie's case, for what she saw was this:

A small room with a low bed in one corner, and a black stove, and pots and dishes hanging on the walls; a cradle with a baby in it, and by the cradle a pleasant-faced young woman sitting in a wicker chair sewing busily—so busily that it was quite a minute before she raised her eyes and saw the little grey-coated figure standing at the door with the dog at 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 her head decidedly.

"Why, bless your little 'art," said the woman, getting up from her chair, "I expect you've lost your folks. You come in and stay a-longer me till the circus is done, and then we'll find 'em. Jem 'ull be 'ome then. 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 up in her arms; this was not the circus after all. But just as she was making up her mind to cry, her attention was caught by something lying on 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 to herself as the woman gave it her, and muttered something about "Andoo's 'ittle gal;" and presently, tired with her great adventure and made drowsy by the warmth of the little room, she dropped off to sleep on the woman's knee, with the boot hugged tightly to her bosom.

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

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

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 got to the circus field, where knots of people still lingered talking of the performance. Amongst these he pushed his way, making the same inquiry, sometimes, if they were strangers, pausing to give a description of Dickie and Snuff; and at last the answer came from a thin man with a very pale face, who was standing near the entrance to the tent:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andrew stared hard at the woman. "The vicar'll be werry grateful to you for 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 Mr Murphy, the clown, him you see in the playbills."

Still Andrew stood with his eyes fixed on her face; then he looked from her 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 just inside the linin'?"

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

"It stands fur 'Molly Martin,'" said Andrew, sitting suddenly down on the edge of the bed with Dickie in his arms. "Oh, be joyful in the Lord, 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 young woman and married to Mr Murphy the clown. The whole village was stirred and excited by the story, and Andrew himself, roused for the moment from his usual surly silence, told it over and over again to eager audiences as he had to Dickie, only now it had a better ending.

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

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

"But if she hadn't," remarked David, "most likely Andrew never would have 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 of wrong things, but that does not make the wrong things right."

Still the children could not help feeling glad that Dickie had been disobedient—just that once.

And then another wonderful thing to think of, was that Andrew was now really related to the clown, whose appearance and manners they had all admired so much the day before. That delightful, witty person, whose ready answers and pointed pleasantries made everyone else seem dull and stupid! He was now Andrew's son-in-law. It appeared, however, that Andrew 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 his spade, "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 a purfesson as I should choose, making a fool of myself for other fools to laugh at. Not but what he do seem a sober, decent sort of chap, and fond 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 brilliantly gifted person like the clown!

"An' they've promised me one thing," continued he as he shouldered his spade, "an' that is that they'll not bring up the little un to the same trade. 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 my gran-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?" added David.

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

THE END.