Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.David’s Pig.By the time Ambrose was quite well again, and able to run about with the others and play as usual, the holidays were over; Miss Grey came back, and lessons began.It was late autumn; hay-time had passed and harvest, and all the fields looked brown and bare and stubbly. The garden paths were covered with dry withered leaves, which made a pleasant sound when you shuffled your feet in them, and were good things for Dickie to put into her little barrow, for as often as she collected them there were soon plenty more. Down they came from the trees, red, brown, yellow, when the wind blew, and defied the best efforts of Dickie and Andrew. There were very few flowers left now—only a few dahlias and marigolds, and some clumps of Michaelmas daisies, so the garden looked rather dreary; but to make up for this there was a splendid crop of apples in the orchard, and the lanes were thickly strewn with bright brown acorns. And these last were specially interesting to David, for it was just about this time that he got his pig.David was a solid squarely-built little boy of seven years old, with hair so light that it looked almost grey, and very solemn blue eyes. He spoke seldom, and took a long time to learn things, but when once that was done he never forgot them; and in this he was unlike Nancy, who could learn quickly, but forget almost as soon. Miss Grey always felt sure that when once David had struggled through a lesson, whether it were the kings and queens of England, or the multiplication table, that he would remember it if she asked him a question weeks afterwards. But then it was a long time before he knew it—so long that it often seemed a hopeless task. Nevertheless, if David was slow he was certainly sure, and people had a habit of depending upon him in various matters. For instance, when Nurse wanted to intrust the baby for a few moments to any of the children during her absence from the nursery, it was never to the three elder she turned, but to David, and her confidence was not misplaced. Once having undertaken any charge or responsibility, David would carry it through unflinchingly, whether it were to amuse the baby, or to take care of any of the animals while their various owners were away. It would have been impossible to him to have forgotten to feed the dormouse for a week as Nancy did, or to have left Sappho the canary without any water, which Pennie to her great agony of mind was once guilty of doing.David’s animals never missed their meals, or were neglected in any way; he was particularly proud of his sleek rabbits, which, together with a family of white rats, lived in the barn, and certainly throve wonderfully, if numbers mean prosperity. The biggest rabbit was called Goliath, and it was David’s delight to hold him up by the ears, in spite of his very powerful kicks, and exhibit his splendid condition to any admiring beholder. But though Goliath was handsome, and the white rats numerous, their owner was not quite satisfied, for his fondest wish for some time past had been to possess a pig. A nice little round black pig, with a very curly tail; he would then be content, and ask nothing further of fortune.He thought of the pig, and hoped for the pig, and it would not be too much to say that he dreamed of the pig. When he passed a drove of them in the road, squeaking, pushing, grunting, and going every way but the right, he would stand in speechless admiration. His mind was a practical one, and did not dwell merely on the pleasure of owning the pig itself, but also on the prospect of fattening, selling, and realising money by it.“You’d never be able to have it killed,” said Nancy, who was his chief confidante, “after you got fond of it, and it got to know you; you’d as soon kill Goliath.”“I shouldn’t have it killed,” answered David. “I should sell it to the farmer.”“Well; buthe’dhave it killed,” pursued the relentless Nancy.This was unanswerable.“Never mind. I want a pig, and I shall save up my money,” said David sturdily.David’s bank was a white china house which stood on the nursery mantel-shelf; it had a very red roof with a hole in it, and into this he continued for some time to drop all his pennies, and halfpennies, and farthings with great persistency, and a mind steadily fixed on the pig. After all, however, he got it without spending any of his savings, and this is how it happened:—One fine morning at the end of September the children were all ready for their usual walk with Miss Grey—all, that is, except Dickie, who, being still a nursery child, went out walking with Nurse and baby. The other four, however, were ready, not only as regards hats and jackets, but were also each provided with something to “take out,” which, in their opinion, was quite as indispensable. Penelope therefore carried a sketching book, Ambrose a boat under one arm, and under the other a camp-stool in case Miss Grey should be tired, Nancy two dolls and a skipping-rope, and David a whip and a long chain. At the end of this was the terrier dog Snuff, choking and struggling with excitement, and giving vent to smothered barks. Snuff would willingly have been loose, and there was indeed not the least occasion for this restraint, as it would have been far easier to lose David than the dog; he knew well, however, that children have their little weaknesses in these matters, and submitted to his bondage with only a few whines of remonstrance when the company had once fairly started.His patience was a good deal tried on this occasion, as well as that of the children, for it seemed as though Mrs Hawthorn never would finish talking to Miss Grey in the hall. At last, however, she said something which pleased them very much:“I want you to go to Hatchard’s Farm for me, and ask about the butter.”Now Hatchard’s Farm was the place of all others that the children delighted to visit. It was about two miles from Easney, and the nicest way to it was across some fields, where you could find mushrooms, into a little narrow lane where the thickly growing blackberry brambles caught and scratched at you as you passed. This lane was muddy in winter, and at no time in the year did it appear so desirable to Miss Grey as to the children; but it was such a favourite walk with them that she generally yielded. The only other way of getting to the farm was by the high-road, and that was so dreadfully dull! After scrambling along the lane a little while, you saw the red-brown roofs of the barns and outbuildings clustering round the house itself, and almost hiding it, and soon a pleasant confusion of noises met your ear. Ducks quacked, hens cackled, pigeons perched about on the roofs kept up a monotonous murmur; then came the deep undertones of the patient cows, and as you neared the house you could generally hear Mrs Hatchard’s voice in her dairy adding its commanding accents to the medley of sounds. It certainly was a delightful farm, and David had long ago determined that when he grew up he would have one just like it, and wear brown leather gaiters like Farmer Hatchard’s. He would also keep pigs like his—quite black, with very short legs and faces, and tightly curled tails. But some time must pass before this, and the next best thing was to go as often as possible to see them, and ask all manner of questions of the farmer or his men. There was no one in the great wide kitchen when the party arrived on this occasion, and Miss Grey sat down to wait for Mrs Hatchard, while the children made their usual tour of admiring examination. They had seen every object in the room hundreds of times before, but how interesting they always were! The high-backed settle on each side of the fire was dark with age, and bright with the toil of Mrs Hatchard’s hands; the heavy oak rafters were so conveniently low that the children could see the farmer’s gun, a bunch of dips, a pair of clogs, a side of bacon kept there as in a sort of storehouse. At the end of the room opposite the wide hearth was the long narrow deal table, where the farmer and his men all dined together at twelve o’clock, for they were old-fashioned people at Hatchard’s Farm; and behind the door hung the cuckoo clock, before which the children never failed to stand in open-mouthed expectation if it were near striking the hour. On all this the sun darted his rays through the low casement, and failed to find, for all his keen glances, one speck of dust.Miss Grey sat in the window-seat looking absently out at the marigolds and asters in the gay garden, when she felt a little hand suddenly placed in hers, and, turning round, saw David, his face crimson with suppressed excitement:“Come,” he said, pulling her gently, “come and look here.”He led her to the hearth, and pointed speechless to something which looked like a small flannel bundle in a basket. As she looked at it, it moved a little.“Well, Davie,” said she, “what is this wonderful thing? Something alive?”David had knelt down close to the bundle and was peering in between the folds of the flannel with an expression of reverent awe. He looked up gravely.“Don’t you see,” he said slowly in lowered accents, “it’s a little baby pig!”Stooping down Miss Grey examined it more closely, and found that it was indeed a little black pig of very tender age, so closely covered up in flannel that only its small pointed snout and one eye were visible.“Do you suppose it’s ill?” inquired David.“I daresay it is,” answered Miss Grey; “we’ll ask Mrs Hatchard about it presently.”The other children had gathered round, all more or less interested in the invalid pig; but presently, Pennie having suggested that they should go and see the new little calf, they ran out of the kitchen in search of fresh excitement.“Come along, Davie,” said Ambrose, looking back from the door; “come out and see the other pigs.”“No,” said David decidedly, “I shall stop here.”He took his seat as he spoke on the corner of the settle nearest the pig, with the evident intention of waiting for Mrs Hatchard’s arrival; he was not going to lose a chance of inquiring closely into such an important subject.And at last Mrs Hatchard came bustling in, cheerful, brisk, and ruddy-faced as usual, with many apologies for her delay. Miss Grey plunged at once into business with her, and the patient David sat silently biding his time for the fit moment to put his questions.“Won’t you run out, little master?” said the good-natured farmer’s wife, noticing the grave little figure at last. “There’s the calves to see, and a fine litter of likely young pigs too.”“No, thank you,” said David politely. “I want to know, please, why you keep this one little pig in here, and whether it’s ill.”“Oh, aye,” said Mrs Hatchard, coming up to the basket and stooping to look at the occupant, which was now making a feeble grunting noise. “I’d most forgot it. You see it’s the Antony pig, and it’s that weakly and dillicut I took it away to give it a chance. I doubt I sha’n’t rear it, though, for it seems a poor little morsel of a thing.”“How many other little pigs are there?” asked David.“Why, there’s ten on ’em—all fine likely pigs except this one, and they do that push and struggle and fight there’s no chance for him.”“Why do you call it the Antony pig?” pursued David with breathless interest.“Well, I don’t rightly know why or wherefore,” said Mrs Hatchard; “it’s just a name the folks about here always give to the smallest pig in the litter.”“Do you think Farmer Hatchard knows?” inquired David.“Well, he might,” said Mrs Hatchard, “and then again he mightn’t. But I tell you what, Master David, if yonder little pig lives, and providin’ the vicar has no objections, I’ll give him to you. You always fancied pigs, didn’t you now?”David was still leaning fondly over the basket, and made no reply at first. It took some time to fully understand the reality of such a splendid offer.“Come, Davie,” said Miss Grey, “we must say good-bye and go and find the others.”Then he got up, and held out his hand gravely to Mrs Hatchard.“Good-bye,” he said. “Thank you. I hope you’ll accede in rearing the Antony pig. I should like to have it very much, if father will let me.”David went home from the farm hardly able to believe in his own good fortune, but according to his custom he said very little.The matter was discussed freely, however, by the other children, and it was so interesting that it lasted them all the way back. Would the pig live? they wondered, and if it did, would their father let David have it? Where would it live? What would David call the pig if he did get it? This last inquiry was put by Ambrose, and he felt quite rebuked when his brother replied scornfully, “Antony, of course.”But there was some demur on the part of the vicar when he was informed of the proposed addition to his live stock.“I don’t like to disappoint you, my boy,” he said, “but you know Andrew has plenty to do already. He has the garden to look after, and the cows, and my horse. I don’t think I could ask him to undertake anything more.”Poor little David’s face fell, and his underlip was pushed out piteously. He would not have cried for the world, and none of the children ever thought of questioning what their father said; so he stood silent, though he felt that the world without the Antony pig would be empty indeed.“Do you want it very much, Davie?” said the vicar, looking up from his writing at the mournful little face.“Yes, father, I do,” said David, and with all his resolution he could not choke back a little catching sob as he spoke.“Well, then, look here,” said his father; “if you will promise me to take entire charge of it, and never to trouble Andrew, or call him away from his work to attend to it, you shall have the pig. But if I find that it is neglected in any way, I shall send it back at once to Farmer Hatchard. Is that a bargain?”“Oh, yes, indeed,” cried the delighted David; and he ran out to tell the result of his interview to the anxious children waiting outside the study door.So David was to have the pig; and, with the assistance of Ambrose and a few words of advice from Andrew, he at once began to prepare a habitation for it. Fortunately there was an old sty still in existence, which only wanted a little repairing, and everything was soon ready. But the rearing of the Antony pig still hung trembling in the balance, and some anxious weeks were passed by David; he called to inquire after it as often as he possibly could, and, to his great joy, found it on each occasion more lively and thriving—thanks to Mrs Hatchard’s devoted care.And at last the long-wished-for day arrived. Antony was driven to his new home with a string tied round his leg, in the midst of a triumphal procession of children, and David’s joy and exultation were complete.There was certainly no danger of his neglecting his charge, or of asking anyone to assist him in its service; never was pig so well cared for as Antony, and as time went on he showed an intelligent appreciation of David’s attentions not unmixed with affection. Perhaps in consequence of these attentions he soon developed much shrewdness of character, and had many little humorous ways which were the pride of his master’s heart. The two were fast friends, and seemed to understand each other without the need of speech, though David had been known to talk to his pig when he believed himself to be in private. As for thesellingpart of the plan, it seemed quite to have faded away, and when Andrew said with a grin:“Well, young master, t’pig ’ull soon be ready for market noo,” David got quite hot and angry, and changed the subject at once.On rare occasions Antony was conducted, making unctuous snorts of pleasure, into the field to taste a little fresh grass and rout about with his inquisitive nose; but the garden was of course forbidden ground. Therefore, when he was once discovered in the act of enjoying himself amongst Andrew’s potatoes, the consternation was extreme. It was Nancy who saw him, as she sat one morning learning a French verb, and staring meanwhile absently out of the schoolroom window. Her expression changed suddenly from utter vacancy to keen interest, and her monotonous murmur of “J’ai, Tu as, Il a,” to a shout of, “Oh, Davie, there’s Antony in the garden!”“Nancy,” said Miss Grey severely, “you know it is against rules to talk in lesson time. Be quiet.”“But I can’t really, Miss Grey,” said Nancy, craning her neck to get a better view of the culprit; “he’s poking up the potatoes like anything. Andrewwillbe so cross. You’d better just let us go and chase him back again.”The excitement had now risen so high that Miss Grey felt this would really be the best plan, for attention to lessons seemed impossible, and soon the four children were rushing helter-skelter across the garden in pursuit of Antony. With a frisk of his tail and a squeak of defiance he led the chase in fine style, choosing Andrew’s most cherished borders. What a refreshment it was, after the tedium of French verbs and English history, and what a pity when Antony, after a brave resistance, was at length hustled back into his sty!Whether the door was insecure, or not too carefully fastened after this, remains uncertain; but it is a fact that these pig-chases came to be of pretty frequent occurrence, and always happened, by some strange chance, during school hours. The cry of, “Pig out!” and the consequent rush of children in pursuit, at last reached such a pitch that both Miss Grey and the much-tried Andrew made complaint to the vicar. Miss Grey declared that discipline was becoming impossible, and Andrew that there would not be a “martal vegetable in the garden if Master David’s pig got out so often.” Then the vicar made a rule to this effect:“If David’s pig is seen in the garden again, it goes back that same day to Farmer Hatchard.”The vicar’s rules were not things to be disregarded, and his threats were always carried out. David and Ambrose might have been seen with a large hammer and nails very busy at the pig-sty that afternoon, and Antony’s visits to the garden ceased, until one unlucky occasion when David was away from home, and it fell out in the following manner:—In the cathedral town of Nearminster, ten miles from Easney, lived Pennie’s godmother Miss Unity Cheffins, and it was Mr and Mrs Hawthorn’s custom to pay her an annual visit of two or three days, taking each of the four elder children with them in turn. It was an occasion much anticipated by the latter, but more for the honour of the thing than from any actual pleasure connected with it, for Miss Unity was rather a stiff old lady, and particular in her notions as to their proper behaviour. She was fond of saying, “Inmytime young people did so and so,” and of noticing any little failure in politeness, or even any personal defect. She was a rich old lady, and lived in a great square house just inside the Cathedral Close; it was sombrely furnished, and full of dark old portraits, and rare china bowls and knick-knacks, which last Miss Unity thought a great deal of, and dusted carefully with her own hands. Amongst the many injunctions impressed upon the children, they were told never to touch the china, and there were indeed so many pitfalls to be avoided, that the visit was not by any means an unmixed pleasure to Mrs Hawthorn. The children themselves, however, though they missed the freedom of their home, and were a little afraid of the upright Miss Unity, managed to extract enjoyment from it, and always looked enviously upon the one of their number whose turn it was to go to Nearminster.And now the time had come round again, and it was David’s turn to go, but there was one drawback to his pleasure, because he must leave the pig. Who could say that some careless hand might not leave the door of the sty open or insecurely fastened during his absence? Then Antony’s fate would be certain, for Andrew was only too eager to carry out the vicar’s sentence of banishment, and was on the watch for the least excuse to hurry the pig back to the farm.After turning it over in his mind, David came to the conclusion that he could best ensure Antony’s safety by placing him under someone’s special care, and he chose Nancy for this important office.“Youwilltake care of him, won’t you?” he said, drawing up very close to her and fixing earnest eyes upon her face, “and see that his gate is always fastened.”Nancy was deeply engaged in painting a picture in thePilgrim’s Progress; she paused a moment to survey the effect of Apollyon in delicate sea-green, and said rather absently:“Of course I will. And so will Ambrose and so will Pennie.”“No, but I want you partickerlerlery to do it,” said David, bungling dreadfully over the long word in his anxiety—“youmorethan the others.”“All right,” said Nancy with her head critically on one side.“I want you to promise three things,” went on David—“to keep his gate shut, and to give him acorns, and not to let Dickie poke a stick at him.”“Oh, yes, I’ll promise,” said Nancy readily.“Truly and faithfully?” continued David, edging still closer up to her; “you won’t forget?”“No, I really won’t,” said Nancy with an impatient jerk of her elbow; “don’t you worry me any more about it.”“I took care of your dormouse whenyouwent,” continued David, “and didn’t forget it once. So you ought to take care of my pig, it’s only fair.”“Well, don’t I tell you I’m going to?” said Nancy, laying down her paint-brush with an air of desperation. “I sha’n’t do it a bit more for your asking so often. Do leave off.”“You’ll only be away three days, Davie,” said Pennie, looking up from her book; “we can manage to take care of Antony that little while I should think.”“Well,” said David, “Nancy’s got to be ’sponsible, because I took care of her mouse.”“If I were you,” said Ambrose with a superior air, “I wouldn’t use such long words; you never say them right.”“I say,” interrupted Pennie, putting down her book, “what do you all like best when you go to Nearminster? I know whatIlike best.”“Well, what is it?” said Ambrose; “you say first, and then Nancy, and then me, and then David.”“Well,” said Pennie, clasping her knees with much enjoyment, “what I like best is going to church in the Cathedral in the afternoon. When it’s a little bit dusky, you know, but not lighted up, and all the pillars look misty, and a long way off, and there are very few people. And then the boys sing, and you feel quite good and just a little bit sad; I can’t think why it is that I never feel like that in our church; I suppose it’s a cathedral feeling. That’s what I like best. Now you, Nancy.”“Why,” said Nancy without the least hesitation. “I like that little Chinese mandarin that stands on the mantel-piece in Miss Unity’s sitting-room, and wags its head.”“AndIlike the drive back here best,” said Ambrose, “because, when we’re going there’s only Miss Unity to see at the end; but when we get here there are all the animals and things.”“I don’t call that liking Nearminster. I call it liking home,” said Nancy. “Now, it’s your turn, David.”“I don’t know what I like best,” said David solemnly. “I only know what I like least.”“What’s that?”“Miss Unity,” said David with decision.“Should you call her very ugly?” inquired Ambrose.“Yes, of course, quite hideous,” replied Nancy indistinctly, with her paint-brush in her mouth.“Well, I’m not quite sure,” said Pennie; “once I saw her eyes look quite nice, as if they had a light shining at the back of them.”“Like that face Andrew made for us out of a hollow pumpkin, with a candle inside?” suggested Nancy.“You’re always so stupid, Nancy!” said Ambrose scornfully. “I know what Pennie means about Miss Unity;I’veseen her eyes look nice too. Don’t you remember, too, how kind she was when Dickie was so rude to her? I’ve never been so afraid of her since that.”The next day the party started for Nearminster in the wagonette, David sitting in front with his feet resting comfortably on his own little trunk. Andrew, who drove, allowed him to hold the whip sometimes, and the end of the reins—so it was quite easy to fancy himself a coachman; but this delightful position did not make him forget other things. Beckoning to Nancy, who stood with the rest on the rectory steps, he lifted a solemn finger.“Remember!” he said.Nancy nodded, the wagonette drove away followed by wavings, and good-byes, and shrieking messages from the children, and was soon out of sight.“That was like Charles the First,” said Pennie; “don’t you remember just before they cut off his head—”“Oh, don’t!” said Nancy; “pray, don’t talk about Charles the First out of lesson time.”

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

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

David was a solid squarely-built little boy of seven years old, with hair so light that it looked almost grey, and very solemn blue eyes. He spoke seldom, and took a long time to learn things, but when once that was done he never forgot them; and in this he was unlike Nancy, who could learn quickly, but forget almost as soon. Miss Grey always felt sure that when once David had struggled through a lesson, whether it were the kings and queens of England, or the multiplication table, that he would remember it if she asked him a question weeks afterwards. But then it was a long time before he knew it—so long that it often seemed a hopeless task. Nevertheless, if David was slow he was certainly sure, and people had a habit of depending upon him in various matters. For instance, when Nurse wanted to intrust the baby for a few moments to any of the children during her absence from the nursery, it was never to the three elder she turned, but to David, and her confidence was not misplaced. Once having undertaken any charge or responsibility, David would carry it through unflinchingly, whether it were to amuse the baby, or to take care of any of the animals while their various owners were away. It would have been impossible to him to have forgotten to feed the dormouse for a week as Nancy did, or to have left Sappho the canary without any water, which Pennie to her great agony of mind was once guilty of doing.

David’s animals never missed their meals, or were neglected in any way; he was particularly proud of his sleek rabbits, which, together with a family of white rats, lived in the barn, and certainly throve wonderfully, if numbers mean prosperity. The biggest rabbit was called Goliath, and it was David’s delight to hold him up by the ears, in spite of his very powerful kicks, and exhibit his splendid condition to any admiring beholder. But though Goliath was handsome, and the white rats numerous, their owner was not quite satisfied, for his fondest wish for some time past had been to possess a pig. A nice little round black pig, with a very curly tail; he would then be content, and ask nothing further of fortune.

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

“You’d never be able to have it killed,” said Nancy, who was his chief confidante, “after you got fond of it, and it got to know you; you’d as soon kill Goliath.”

“I shouldn’t have it killed,” answered David. “I should sell it to the farmer.”

“Well; buthe’dhave it killed,” pursued the relentless Nancy.

This was unanswerable.

“Never mind. I want a pig, and I shall save up my money,” said David sturdily.

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

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

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

“I want you to go to Hatchard’s Farm for me, and ask about the butter.”

Now Hatchard’s Farm was the place of all others that the children delighted to visit. It was about two miles from Easney, and the nicest way to it was across some fields, where you could find mushrooms, into a little narrow lane where the thickly growing blackberry brambles caught and scratched at you as you passed. This lane was muddy in winter, and at no time in the year did it appear so desirable to Miss Grey as to the children; but it was such a favourite walk with them that she generally yielded. The only other way of getting to the farm was by the high-road, and that was so dreadfully dull! After scrambling along the lane a little while, you saw the red-brown roofs of the barns and outbuildings clustering round the house itself, and almost hiding it, and soon a pleasant confusion of noises met your ear. Ducks quacked, hens cackled, pigeons perched about on the roofs kept up a monotonous murmur; then came the deep undertones of the patient cows, and as you neared the house you could generally hear Mrs Hatchard’s voice in her dairy adding its commanding accents to the medley of sounds. It certainly was a delightful farm, and David had long ago determined that when he grew up he would have one just like it, and wear brown leather gaiters like Farmer Hatchard’s. He would also keep pigs like his—quite black, with very short legs and faces, and tightly curled tails. But some time must pass before this, and the next best thing was to go as often as possible to see them, and ask all manner of questions of the farmer or his men. There was no one in the great wide kitchen when the party arrived on this occasion, and Miss Grey sat down to wait for Mrs Hatchard, while the children made their usual tour of admiring examination. They had seen every object in the room hundreds of times before, but how interesting they always were! The high-backed settle on each side of the fire was dark with age, and bright with the toil of Mrs Hatchard’s hands; the heavy oak rafters were so conveniently low that the children could see the farmer’s gun, a bunch of dips, a pair of clogs, a side of bacon kept there as in a sort of storehouse. At the end of the room opposite the wide hearth was the long narrow deal table, where the farmer and his men all dined together at twelve o’clock, for they were old-fashioned people at Hatchard’s Farm; and behind the door hung the cuckoo clock, before which the children never failed to stand in open-mouthed expectation if it were near striking the hour. On all this the sun darted his rays through the low casement, and failed to find, for all his keen glances, one speck of dust.

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

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

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

“Well, Davie,” said she, “what is this wonderful thing? Something alive?”

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

“Don’t you see,” he said slowly in lowered accents, “it’s a little baby pig!”

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

“Do you suppose it’s ill?” inquired David.

“I daresay it is,” answered Miss Grey; “we’ll ask Mrs Hatchard about it presently.”

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

“Come along, Davie,” said Ambrose, looking back from the door; “come out and see the other pigs.”

“No,” said David decidedly, “I shall stop here.”

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

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

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

“No, thank you,” said David politely. “I want to know, please, why you keep this one little pig in here, and whether it’s ill.”

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

“How many other little pigs are there?” asked David.

“Why, there’s ten on ’em—all fine likely pigs except this one, and they do that push and struggle and fight there’s no chance for him.”

“Why do you call it the Antony pig?” pursued David with breathless interest.

“Well, I don’t rightly know why or wherefore,” said Mrs Hatchard; “it’s just a name the folks about here always give to the smallest pig in the litter.”

“Do you think Farmer Hatchard knows?” inquired David.

“Well, he might,” said Mrs Hatchard, “and then again he mightn’t. But I tell you what, Master David, if yonder little pig lives, and providin’ the vicar has no objections, I’ll give him to you. You always fancied pigs, didn’t you now?”

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

“Come, Davie,” said Miss Grey, “we must say good-bye and go and find the others.”

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

“Good-bye,” he said. “Thank you. I hope you’ll accede in rearing the Antony pig. I should like to have it very much, if father will let me.”

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

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

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

“I don’t like to disappoint you, my boy,” he said, “but you know Andrew has plenty to do already. He has the garden to look after, and the cows, and my horse. I don’t think I could ask him to undertake anything more.”

Poor little David’s face fell, and his underlip was pushed out piteously. He would not have cried for the world, and none of the children ever thought of questioning what their father said; so he stood silent, though he felt that the world without the Antony pig would be empty indeed.

“Do you want it very much, Davie?” said the vicar, looking up from his writing at the mournful little face.

“Yes, father, I do,” said David, and with all his resolution he could not choke back a little catching sob as he spoke.

“Well, then, look here,” said his father; “if you will promise me to take entire charge of it, and never to trouble Andrew, or call him away from his work to attend to it, you shall have the pig. But if I find that it is neglected in any way, I shall send it back at once to Farmer Hatchard. Is that a bargain?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” cried the delighted David; and he ran out to tell the result of his interview to the anxious children waiting outside the study door.

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

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

There was certainly no danger of his neglecting his charge, or of asking anyone to assist him in its service; never was pig so well cared for as Antony, and as time went on he showed an intelligent appreciation of David’s attentions not unmixed with affection. Perhaps in consequence of these attentions he soon developed much shrewdness of character, and had many little humorous ways which were the pride of his master’s heart. The two were fast friends, and seemed to understand each other without the need of speech, though David had been known to talk to his pig when he believed himself to be in private. As for thesellingpart of the plan, it seemed quite to have faded away, and when Andrew said with a grin:

“Well, young master, t’pig ’ull soon be ready for market noo,” David got quite hot and angry, and changed the subject at once.

On rare occasions Antony was conducted, making unctuous snorts of pleasure, into the field to taste a little fresh grass and rout about with his inquisitive nose; but the garden was of course forbidden ground. Therefore, when he was once discovered in the act of enjoying himself amongst Andrew’s potatoes, the consternation was extreme. It was Nancy who saw him, as she sat one morning learning a French verb, and staring meanwhile absently out of the schoolroom window. Her expression changed suddenly from utter vacancy to keen interest, and her monotonous murmur of “J’ai, Tu as, Il a,” to a shout of, “Oh, Davie, there’s Antony in the garden!”

“Nancy,” said Miss Grey severely, “you know it is against rules to talk in lesson time. Be quiet.”

“But I can’t really, Miss Grey,” said Nancy, craning her neck to get a better view of the culprit; “he’s poking up the potatoes like anything. Andrewwillbe so cross. You’d better just let us go and chase him back again.”

The excitement had now risen so high that Miss Grey felt this would really be the best plan, for attention to lessons seemed impossible, and soon the four children were rushing helter-skelter across the garden in pursuit of Antony. With a frisk of his tail and a squeak of defiance he led the chase in fine style, choosing Andrew’s most cherished borders. What a refreshment it was, after the tedium of French verbs and English history, and what a pity when Antony, after a brave resistance, was at length hustled back into his sty!

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

“If David’s pig is seen in the garden again, it goes back that same day to Farmer Hatchard.”

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

In the cathedral town of Nearminster, ten miles from Easney, lived Pennie’s godmother Miss Unity Cheffins, and it was Mr and Mrs Hawthorn’s custom to pay her an annual visit of two or three days, taking each of the four elder children with them in turn. It was an occasion much anticipated by the latter, but more for the honour of the thing than from any actual pleasure connected with it, for Miss Unity was rather a stiff old lady, and particular in her notions as to their proper behaviour. She was fond of saying, “Inmytime young people did so and so,” and of noticing any little failure in politeness, or even any personal defect. She was a rich old lady, and lived in a great square house just inside the Cathedral Close; it was sombrely furnished, and full of dark old portraits, and rare china bowls and knick-knacks, which last Miss Unity thought a great deal of, and dusted carefully with her own hands. Amongst the many injunctions impressed upon the children, they were told never to touch the china, and there were indeed so many pitfalls to be avoided, that the visit was not by any means an unmixed pleasure to Mrs Hawthorn. The children themselves, however, though they missed the freedom of their home, and were a little afraid of the upright Miss Unity, managed to extract enjoyment from it, and always looked enviously upon the one of their number whose turn it was to go to Nearminster.

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

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

“Youwilltake care of him, won’t you?” he said, drawing up very close to her and fixing earnest eyes upon her face, “and see that his gate is always fastened.”

Nancy was deeply engaged in painting a picture in thePilgrim’s Progress; she paused a moment to survey the effect of Apollyon in delicate sea-green, and said rather absently:

“Of course I will. And so will Ambrose and so will Pennie.”

“No, but I want you partickerlerlery to do it,” said David, bungling dreadfully over the long word in his anxiety—“youmorethan the others.”

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

“I want you to promise three things,” went on David—“to keep his gate shut, and to give him acorns, and not to let Dickie poke a stick at him.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll promise,” said Nancy readily.

“Truly and faithfully?” continued David, edging still closer up to her; “you won’t forget?”

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

“I took care of your dormouse whenyouwent,” continued David, “and didn’t forget it once. So you ought to take care of my pig, it’s only fair.”

“Well, don’t I tell you I’m going to?” said Nancy, laying down her paint-brush with an air of desperation. “I sha’n’t do it a bit more for your asking so often. Do leave off.”

“You’ll only be away three days, Davie,” said Pennie, looking up from her book; “we can manage to take care of Antony that little while I should think.”

“Well,” said David, “Nancy’s got to be ’sponsible, because I took care of her mouse.”

“If I were you,” said Ambrose with a superior air, “I wouldn’t use such long words; you never say them right.”

“I say,” interrupted Pennie, putting down her book, “what do you all like best when you go to Nearminster? I know whatIlike best.”

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

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

“Why,” said Nancy without the least hesitation. “I like that little Chinese mandarin that stands on the mantel-piece in Miss Unity’s sitting-room, and wags its head.”

“AndIlike the drive back here best,” said Ambrose, “because, when we’re going there’s only Miss Unity to see at the end; but when we get here there are all the animals and things.”

“I don’t call that liking Nearminster. I call it liking home,” said Nancy. “Now, it’s your turn, David.”

“I don’t know what I like best,” said David solemnly. “I only know what I like least.”

“What’s that?”

“Miss Unity,” said David with decision.

“Should you call her very ugly?” inquired Ambrose.

“Yes, of course, quite hideous,” replied Nancy indistinctly, with her paint-brush in her mouth.

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

“Like that face Andrew made for us out of a hollow pumpkin, with a candle inside?” suggested Nancy.

“You’re always so stupid, Nancy!” said Ambrose scornfully. “I know what Pennie means about Miss Unity;I’veseen her eyes look nice too. Don’t you remember, too, how kind she was when Dickie was so rude to her? I’ve never been so afraid of her since that.”

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

“Remember!” he said.

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

“That was like Charles the First,” said Pennie; “don’t you remember just before they cut off his head—”

“Oh, don’t!” said Nancy; “pray, don’t talk about Charles the First out of lesson time.”

Chapter Five.Miss Unity.It was a lonely life which Miss Unity Cheffins lived at Nearminster, but she had become so used to it that it did not occur to her to wish for any other. Far far in the distance she could remember a time when everything had not been so quiet and still round her—when she was one of a group of children who had made the old house in the Close echo with their little hurrying footsteps and laughing voices. One by one those voices had become silent and the footsteps had hastened away, and Miss Unity was left alone to fill the empty rooms as she best might with the memories of the past. That was long long ago, and now her days were all just alike, as formal and even as the trimly-kept Close outside her door. And she liked them to be so; any variety or change would have been irksome to her. She liked to know that exactly as eight o’clock sounded from the cathedral Bridget would bring her a cup of tea, would pull up her blind to a certain height, and would remark, “A fine morning, ma’am,” or “A dull morning,” as the case might be. At eleven o’clock, wet or dry, she would sally forth into the town to do the light part of her marketing and cast a thoughtful eye on the price of vegetables; after which, girt with a large linen apron, and her head protected by a mob-cap, she would proceed to dust and wash her cherished china. From much loneliness she had formed a habit of talking quietly to herself during these operations; but no one could have understood her, for she only uttered the fag-ends of her thoughts aloud.The Chinese mandarin which Nancy admired was the object of Miss Unity’s fondest care; some bygone association was doubtless connected with him, for she seldom failed to utter some husky little sentences of endearment while she lingered over his grotesque person with tender touches of her feather brush. So the day went on. After her dinner, if the weather were fair, she would perhaps deck herself with a black silk mantilla and a tall bonnet with nodding flowers, and go out to visit some old friend. A muffin, a cup of tea, and perhaps a little cathedral gossip would follow; and then Miss Unity, stepping primly across the Close, reached the dull shelter of her own home again, and was alone for the rest of the evening. At ten o’clock she read prayers to Bridget and the little maid, and so to bed.The even course of these days was only disturbed twice in the year—once by Mr and Mrs Hawthorn’s visit to Nearminster, and once by Miss Unity’s visit to Easney. These were important events to her, anticipated for months, not exactly with pleasure; for, though she was really fond of her friends, she was shy, and to be put out of her usual habits was, besides, a positive torture to her. Then there were the children! Troublesome little riddles Miss Unity often found them, impossible to understand; and it is a question whether she or they were the more uncomfortable when they were together. For she had an idea, gathered from some dim recollection of the past, that children needed constant correction and reproof; and she felt sure Mary Hawthorn neglected her duty in this respect and was over-indulgent. So, being a most conscientious woman, she tried to supply this shortcoming, and the result was not a happy one.She was ill at ease with all the children, but of Dickie she was fairly frightened, for Dickie had disgraced herself at her very first introduction. Seeing Miss Unity’s grim face framed by the nodding bonnet bending down to kiss her, the child looked up and said with a sweet smile, “Ugly lady!”There was no disguising it, for Dickie’s utterance had the clearness of a bell, and a horrified silence fell on the assembly.“Don’t be naughty, Dickie,” said Mrs Hawthorn reprovingly; “say, ‘How do you do?’ directly.”But Miss Unity had straightened herself up and turned away with an odd look in her eyes.“Don’t scold the child, Mary,” she said; “she’s not naughty, she’s only honest.”From that time Pennie never considered Miss Unity quite ugly, and indeed her features were not so much ugly as rugged and immovable. When her feelings were stirred she was not ugly at all; for they were good, kind feelings, and made her whole face look pleasant. So little happened in her life, however, that they generally remained shut up as in a sort of prison and were seldom called forth; people, therefore, who did not know her often thought her cross. But Miss Unity was not cross—she was only lonely and dull because she had so little to love. Nothing could have passed off better than the Hawthorns’ visit on this particular occasion, and indeed when David was with her Mrs Hawthorn never feared the unlucky accidents which were apt to occur with the other children. He was so deliberate and careful by nature that there was no risk of his knocking down the china, or treading on the cat’s tail, or on the train of Miss Unity’s gown. Nancy did all these things frequently, however hard she tried to be good, and was besides very restive under reproof and ready to answer pertly.On the whole Miss Unity liked to have the grave little David with her better than the other children, though she sometimes felt when she found his solemn and disapproving gaze fixed upon her. David on his side had his opinions, though he said little, and he had long ago made up his mind that he did not like Miss Unity at all. So he was sorry to find, when the day came for leaving Nearminster, that she was going back to Easney with them instead of making her visit later in the year. It would not be nearly as pleasant as driving alone with his father and mother, he thought; for now he could not ask questions on the way, unless he talked to Andrew, and he was always so silent.When the wagonette came round there were so many little packages belonging to Miss Unity that it was quite difficult to stow them away, and as fast as that was done Bridget brought out more. Not that there was much luggage altogether, but it consisted in such a number of oddly-shaped parcels and small boxes that it was both puzzling and distracting to know where to put them. Mr Hawthorn was busy for a good quarter of an hour disposing of Miss Unity’s property; while David looked on, keenly interested, and full of faith in his father’s capacity.“That’s all, I think,” said Mr Hawthorn triumphantly at last, as he emerged from the depths of the wagonette, and surveyed his labours; “there’s not much room left for us, certainly, but I daresay we shall manage.”As he spoke Bridget came out of the house carrying a waterproof bundle, bristling with umbrellas and parasols.“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed the vicar in a discouraged voice, “is that to go? Does your mistress want all those umbrellas?”“She wouldn’t like to go without ’em, sir,” replied Bridget.“Whereshallyou put them, father?” asked David in quite an excited manner.That was indeed a question, but it was at length solved by Mr Hawthorn deciding to walk, and the wagonette was ready to proceed, David sitting in front as usual. After several efforts to make Andrew talk he fell back for amusement on his own thoughts, and in recognising all the well-known objects they passed on the road. Presently they came to a certain little grey cottage, and then he knew they were halfway home. It had honeysuckle growing over the porch, and a row of bee-hives in the garden, which was generally bright and gay with flowers; just now, however, it all looked withered and unattractive, except that on one tree there still hung some very red apples, though it was the beginning of November. That reminded David of Antony, who had a great weakness for apples. He smiled to himself, and felt glad that he should see his pet so soon.After this cottage there was a long steep hill to go up, and here Ruby the horse always waited for Andrew to get down and walk. David might really drive now, and even flick at Ruby’s fat sides with the whip, which was pleasant, but did not make the least difference to his speed.When they had reached the top of the hill, the little square tower of Easney church could just be seen, and the chimneys of the vicarage, but though they looked near, there were still nearly four miles to drive. Now it was all downhill, and Ruby pounded along at an even trot, which seemed to make a sort of accompaniment to David’s thoughts—To market, to market,To buy a fat pig;Home again, home again,Jig a jig, jig!it said, over and over again. “I wonder whether Antony will know me!” thought David.Five minutes more and the carriage stopped at the white gate, and Andrew getting down to open it, David drove in a masterly manner up to the front door, where Ambrose, Pennie, and Dickie were assembled to welcome the return. Amidst the bustle which followed, while Miss Unity’s belongings were being unpacked and carried indoors under the watchful eye of their owner, David slipped down from his perch and hurried away towards the kitchen-garden; Antony lived there, and he would go and see him first of all. As he ran along the narrow path, bordered with fruit-trees, he stooped to pick up a wrinkled red apple which had fallen. “He’ssofond of ’em!” thought he, as he put it in his pocket. There was the sty, and now he should soon hear the low grunt so delightful to his ears. All was silent, however, and he went on more slowly, with a slight feeling of dread, for somehow the sty had a strangely empty look about it. “He’s eating,” said David encouragingly to himself; but even as he said so he stood still, quite afraid to go any nearer. Then he called gently: “Choug, choug, choug.” No sign of life. No inquiring black snout peering over the edge. Unable to bear the uncertainty, he rushed forward and looked into the sty.Empty! Yes, quite empty—Antony’s straw bed was there, and the remains of some food in his trough, but no Antony!David stood staring at the desolate dwelling for some minutes, hardly able to believe his eyes; then with a thrill of hope he said to himself:“He must have got out. He must be somewhere in the garden;” and he turned round to go and search for him. As he did so, he saw a small dejected figure coming down the path towards him with downcast face and lagging step. It was Nancy—grief in every feature, and guilt in every movement. One glance was enough for David; he understood it all now, and he flushed angrily, and turned his back upon her, clenching his fists tightly. She came slowly up and stood close to him; she was crying.“Oh, Davie,” she said. “I am so sorry.”“Where’s Antony?” said David in a muffled voice without looking at her.“He’s gone.”“Where?”“Back to the farm.”“Why?”“Andrew took him. He found him eating the spinach, and he said he must obey orders. And I asked Miss Grey to stop him, and she said she couldn’t interfere—”Nancy stopped and gasped.“Then,” said David sternly, “you didn’t fasten his gate.”“Oh, IthoughtI did,” said Nancy, beginning to sob again in an agonised manner; “but I forgot to put that stick through the staple, and he must have pushed it open. I am so sorry.”“That’s no good at all,” said David with a trembling lip; “Antony’s gone.”“I’ll give you anything of mine to make up,” said Nancy eagerly—“my bantam hen, or my dormouse, or my white kitten.”“I don’t want anything of yours,” said David, “I want my own pig.”Nancy was silent, except for some little convulsive sobs. Presently she made a last effort.“Please, Davie,” she said humbly, “won’t you forgive me? Iamso sorry.”David turned round. His face was very red, but he spoke slowly and quietly:“No,” he said, “I won’t forgive you. I never mean to. You promised to take care of Antony, and you haven’t. You’reverywicked.”Then he went away and left Nancy in floods of tears by the empty sty.Everyone sympathised with David at first, and was sorry for his loss, though perhaps no one quite understood what a great one it was to him; but there was another feeling mingled with his grief for Antony, which was even stronger, and that was anger towards his sister. David had a deep sense of justice, and it seemed hard to him that he alone should suffer for Nancy’s wrong-doing. When he saw her after a time as merry and gay as though Antony had never existed, he felt as hard as stone, and would neither speak to her nor join in any game in which she took part. She ought to be punished, he thought, and made to feel as unhappy as he did. Poor little Davie! he was very miserable in those days, and sadly changed, for his once loving heart was torn with grief and anger, which are both hard to bear, but anger far the worse of the two. So he moped about mournfully alone, and no one took much notice of him, for people got tired of trying to comfort him and persuade him to forgive. Even his mother was unsuccessful:“You ought to forgive and forget, Davie,” said she.“Ican’tforget Antony,” replied David, “and I don’t want to forgive Nancy. I’d rathernot.”“But she would be the first to forget any wrong thing you did to her,” continued Mrs Hawthorn.“Nancyalwaysforgets,” said David, “wrong things and right things too.”Mrs Hawthorn was silenced, for this was strictly true.“I don’t know what to make of David,” she said to her husband afterwards. “I would ask you to let him have the pig back, but I don’t think he ought to have it while he shows this unforgiving spirit.”“Let him alone,” said the vicar. “Leave it to time.”So David was left alone; but time went on and did not seem to soften his feelings in the least, and this was at last brought about by a very unexpected person.One morning Miss Unity, who had now been staying some time at Easney, went out to take a little air in the garden: it was rather damp under foot, for it had rained in the night, but now the sun shone brightly, and she stepped forth, well protected by over-shoes and thick shawl, with the intention of taking exercise for exactly a quarter of an hour.From the direction of the Wilderness she heard shouts and laughter which warned her of the children’s whereabouts, and she turned at once into another path which led to the kitchen-garden.“How Mary does let those children run wild!” she said to herself, “and Pennie getting a great girl, too. As for Miss Grey, she’s a perfect cipher, and doesn’t look after them a bit. If they weremychildren—”But here Miss Unity’s reflections were checked. Lifting her eyes she saw at the end of the narrow path a low shed which looked like a pig-sty; by it was a plank, raised at each end on a stone, so as to form a rough bench, and on this there crouched a small disconsolate figure. It was bent nearly double, and had its face buried in its hands, so that only a rough shock of very light hair was visible; but though she could not see any features Miss Unity knew at once that it was David mourning for his pig.Her first impulse was to turn round and go quickly away, for she had gathered from what she had heard of the affair that he was a very naughty, sulky little boy; as she looked, however, she saw by a slight heaving movement of the shoulder that he was crying quietly, and her heart was stirred with sudden pity:“It’s a real grief to the child, that’s evident, though it’s only about a pig,” she said to herself, and, yielding to another impulse, she walked on towards him instead of going back. But after all it was a difficult situation when she got close to him, for she did not know what to say, although she felt an increasing desire to give him comfort. At any rate it was useless to stand there in silence looking at that little bowed head; would it be better to sit down by him, perhaps? she wondered, casting a doubtful eye on the decidedly dirty plank. Miss Unity was delicately particular, and her whole soul recoiled from dirt and dust, so it was really with heroic resolution that she suddenly folded her nice grey gown closely about her and took a seat, stiffly erect, by David’s side. When there she felt impelled to pat his head gently with two long fingers, and say softly: “Poor little boy!”David had watched all Miss Unity’s movements narrowly through a chink in his fingers, though he kept his face closely hidden, and when she sat down beside him he was so surprised that he stopped crying. He wondered what she was going to say. She would scold him, of course, everyone scolded him now, and he set his teeth sullenly and prepared to defend himself. Then the unexpected kind words fell on his ear, and he could not help bursting into fresh tears, and sobbed as if his heart would break. It was partly for Antony, partly for Nancy, partly for himself that he was crying; he was so tired of being naughty, and he wanted so much to be made good again.Miss Unity was sadly perplexed by the result of her efforts; she seemed to have made matters worse instead of better, and she sat for some minutes in silent dismay by the side of the sobbing David. But having begun she felt she must go on, and taking advantage of a little lull she presently said:“Was it a nice pig, David?”“B–b–beautiful.”“And you miss it?”This was so evident a fact that David seemed to think it needed no answer, and Miss Unity continued:“It’s sad to lose anything we know and love. Very hard to bear. It’s quite natural and right to be sorry.”David took his hands away from his face, which was curiously marked by dirty fingers and tears, and lifted a pair of blurred blue eyes to Miss Unity. He was listening, and she felt encouraged to proceed:“But though it’s hard, there is something else that is much worse; do you know what that is?”“No,” said David.“To be angry with anyone we love,” said Miss Unity solemnly; “that is a very bitter feeling, and hurts us very much. All the while we have it in our hearts we can’t be happy, because anger and love are fighting together.”David’s eyes grew rounder and larger. Could this really be Miss Unity? He was deeply impressed.“And they fight,” she went on, “until one is killed. Very often love is stronger, but sometimes it is anger that conquers, and then sad things follow. In this way, David, much evil has happened in the world from time to time.”Miss Unity paused. She felt that she was getting on very well, and was surprised at her own success, for David had stopped crying, and was staring at her with absorbed interest. She went on:“When once we let anger drive love quite out of our hearts all manner of bad things enter; but we don’t often succeed in doing it, because love is so great and strong. Do you know why you’re so unhappy just now?”“Because I’ve lost Antony,” said David at once.“Yes, that is one reason, but there is a bigger one. It is because you are angry with Nancy.”David hung his head.“You’re fond of Nancy, Davie? I’ve heard your mother say that you and she are favourite playfellows.”“No,” said David, “not now. She promised to shut Antony’s gate—and she forgot.”Miss Unity stopped a moment to think; then she said:“Would you be happier, David, if Nancy were to be punished?”“Yes.”“Why?”“Because it would be fair.”“Well—you know it’s Nancy’s birthday soon, and she has to choose what present I shall give her?”David nodded his head. He knew it very well; and not only that, he knew what Nancy was going to choose, for she had confided to him as a great secret that her heart was set on a kitchen-range for the doll’s house.“When she chooses, would you like me to say: ‘No, Nancy. Because you were careless and forgot David’s pig I shall give you nothing this year?’”Miss Unity waited eagerly for the answer. How she hoped it would be “No.” She had not been so anxious for anything for a long time.But David raised his head, gazed at her calmly, and said quite distinctly:“Yes.”Miss Unity sighed as she got up from her lowly seat.“Very well, David,” she said, “it shall be so; but I am sorry you will not forgive your sister.”She went sadly back to the house, thinking to herself:“Of courseIcould not persuade where others have failed. It was foolish to try. I have no influence with children. I ought to have remembered that.”But she was mistaken. That night when she was dressing for dinner there was a little knock at her door, very low down as though from somebody of short stature. She opened it, and there was David.“If you please,” he said, “I’ve come to say that I’d rather you gave Nancy the kitchen-range—I mean, whatever she chooses for her birthday.”“Then you’ve forgiven her?” asked Miss Unity excitedly.“Yes,” said David. “Good-night, because it’s bed-time. Nurse said 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.

It was a lonely life which Miss Unity Cheffins lived at Nearminster, but she had become so used to it that it did not occur to her to wish for any other. Far far in the distance she could remember a time when everything had not been so quiet and still round her—when she was one of a group of children who had made the old house in the Close echo with their little hurrying footsteps and laughing voices. One by one those voices had become silent and the footsteps had hastened away, and Miss Unity was left alone to fill the empty rooms as she best might with the memories of the past. That was long long ago, and now her days were all just alike, as formal and even as the trimly-kept Close outside her door. And she liked them to be so; any variety or change would have been irksome to her. She liked to know that exactly as eight o’clock sounded from the cathedral Bridget would bring her a cup of tea, would pull up her blind to a certain height, and would remark, “A fine morning, ma’am,” or “A dull morning,” as the case might be. At eleven o’clock, wet or dry, she would sally forth into the town to do the light part of her marketing and cast a thoughtful eye on the price of vegetables; after which, girt with a large linen apron, and her head protected by a mob-cap, she would proceed to dust and wash her cherished china. From much loneliness she had formed a habit of talking quietly to herself during these operations; but no one could have understood her, for she only uttered the fag-ends of her thoughts aloud.

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

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

She was ill at ease with all the children, but of Dickie she was fairly frightened, for Dickie had disgraced herself at her very first introduction. Seeing Miss Unity’s grim face framed by the nodding bonnet bending down to kiss her, the child looked up and said with a sweet smile, “Ugly lady!”

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

“Don’t be naughty, Dickie,” said Mrs Hawthorn reprovingly; “say, ‘How do you do?’ directly.”

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

“Don’t scold the child, Mary,” she said; “she’s not naughty, she’s only honest.”

From that time Pennie never considered Miss Unity quite ugly, and indeed her features were not so much ugly as rugged and immovable. When her feelings were stirred she was not ugly at all; for they were good, kind feelings, and made her whole face look pleasant. So little happened in her life, however, that they generally remained shut up as in a sort of prison and were seldom called forth; people, therefore, who did not know her often thought her cross. But Miss Unity was not cross—she was only lonely and dull because she had so little to love. Nothing could have passed off better than the Hawthorns’ visit on this particular occasion, and indeed when David was with her Mrs Hawthorn never feared the unlucky accidents which were apt to occur with the other children. He was so deliberate and careful by nature that there was no risk of his knocking down the china, or treading on the cat’s tail, or on the train of Miss Unity’s gown. Nancy did all these things frequently, however hard she tried to be good, and was besides very restive under reproof and ready to answer pertly.

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

When the wagonette came round there were so many little packages belonging to Miss Unity that it was quite difficult to stow them away, and as fast as that was done Bridget brought out more. Not that there was much luggage altogether, but it consisted in such a number of oddly-shaped parcels and small boxes that it was both puzzling and distracting to know where to put them. Mr Hawthorn was busy for a good quarter of an hour disposing of Miss Unity’s property; while David looked on, keenly interested, and full of faith in his father’s capacity.

“That’s all, I think,” said Mr Hawthorn triumphantly at last, as he emerged from the depths of the wagonette, and surveyed his labours; “there’s not much room left for us, certainly, but I daresay we shall manage.”

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

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed the vicar in a discouraged voice, “is that to go? Does your mistress want all those umbrellas?”

“She wouldn’t like to go without ’em, sir,” replied Bridget.

“Whereshallyou put them, father?” asked David in quite an excited manner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five minutes more and the carriage stopped at the white gate, and Andrew getting down to open it, David drove in a masterly manner up to the front door, where Ambrose, Pennie, and Dickie were assembled to welcome the return. Amidst the bustle which followed, while Miss Unity’s belongings were being unpacked and carried indoors under the watchful eye of their owner, David slipped down from his perch and hurried away towards the kitchen-garden; Antony lived there, and he would go and see him first of all. As he ran along the narrow path, bordered with fruit-trees, he stooped to pick up a wrinkled red apple which had fallen. “He’ssofond of ’em!” thought he, as he put it in his pocket. There was the sty, and now he should soon hear the low grunt so delightful to his ears. All was silent, however, and he went on more slowly, with a slight feeling of dread, for somehow the sty had a strangely empty look about it. “He’s eating,” said David encouragingly to himself; but even as he said so he stood still, quite afraid to go any nearer. Then he called gently: “Choug, choug, choug.” No sign of life. No inquiring black snout peering over the edge. Unable to bear the uncertainty, he rushed forward and looked into the sty.

Empty! Yes, quite empty—Antony’s straw bed was there, and the remains of some food in his trough, but no Antony!

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

“He must have got out. He must be somewhere in the garden;” and he turned round to go and search for him. As he did so, he saw a small dejected figure coming down the path towards him with downcast face and lagging step. It was Nancy—grief in every feature, and guilt in every movement. One glance was enough for David; he understood it all now, and he flushed angrily, and turned his back upon her, clenching his fists tightly. She came slowly up and stood close to him; she was crying.

“Oh, Davie,” she said. “I am so sorry.”

“Where’s Antony?” said David in a muffled voice without looking at her.

“He’s gone.”

“Where?”

“Back to the farm.”

“Why?”

“Andrew took him. He found him eating the spinach, and he said he must obey orders. And I asked Miss Grey to stop him, and she said she couldn’t interfere—”

Nancy stopped and gasped.

“Then,” said David sternly, “you didn’t fasten his gate.”

“Oh, IthoughtI did,” said Nancy, beginning to sob again in an agonised manner; “but I forgot to put that stick through the staple, and he must have pushed it open. I am so sorry.”

“That’s no good at all,” said David with a trembling lip; “Antony’s gone.”

“I’ll give you anything of mine to make up,” said Nancy eagerly—“my bantam hen, or my dormouse, or my white kitten.”

“I don’t want anything of yours,” said David, “I want my own pig.”

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

“Please, Davie,” she said humbly, “won’t you forgive me? Iamso sorry.”

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

“No,” he said, “I won’t forgive you. I never mean to. You promised to take care of Antony, and you haven’t. You’reverywicked.”

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

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

“You ought to forgive and forget, Davie,” said she.

“Ican’tforget Antony,” replied David, “and I don’t want to forgive Nancy. I’d rathernot.”

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

“Nancyalwaysforgets,” said David, “wrong things and right things too.”

Mrs Hawthorn was silenced, for this was strictly true.

“I don’t know what to make of David,” she said to her husband afterwards. “I would ask you to let him have the pig back, but I don’t think he ought to have it while he shows this unforgiving spirit.”

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

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

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

From the direction of the Wilderness she heard shouts and laughter which warned her of the children’s whereabouts, and she turned at once into another path which led to the kitchen-garden.

“How Mary does let those children run wild!” she said to herself, “and Pennie getting a great girl, too. As for Miss Grey, she’s a perfect cipher, and doesn’t look after them a bit. If they weremychildren—”

But here Miss Unity’s reflections were checked. Lifting her eyes she saw at the end of the narrow path a low shed which looked like a pig-sty; by it was a plank, raised at each end on a stone, so as to form a rough bench, and on this there crouched a small disconsolate figure. It was bent nearly double, and had its face buried in its hands, so that only a rough shock of very light hair was visible; but though she could not see any features Miss Unity knew at once that it was David mourning for his pig.

Her first impulse was to turn round and go quickly away, for she had gathered from what she had heard of the affair that he was a very naughty, sulky little boy; as she looked, however, she saw by a slight heaving movement of the shoulder that he was crying quietly, and her heart was stirred with sudden pity:

“It’s a real grief to the child, that’s evident, though it’s only about a pig,” she said to herself, and, yielding to another impulse, she walked on towards him instead of going back. But after all it was a difficult situation when she got close to him, for she did not know what to say, although she felt an increasing desire to give him comfort. At any rate it was useless to stand there in silence looking at that little bowed head; would it be better to sit down by him, perhaps? she wondered, casting a doubtful eye on the decidedly dirty plank. Miss Unity was delicately particular, and her whole soul recoiled from dirt and dust, so it was really with heroic resolution that she suddenly folded her nice grey gown closely about her and took a seat, stiffly erect, by David’s side. When there she felt impelled to pat his head gently with two long fingers, and say softly: “Poor little boy!”

David had watched all Miss Unity’s movements narrowly through a chink in his fingers, though he kept his face closely hidden, and when she sat down beside him he was so surprised that he stopped crying. He wondered what she was going to say. She would scold him, of course, everyone scolded him now, and he set his teeth sullenly and prepared to defend himself. Then the unexpected kind words fell on his ear, and he could not help bursting into fresh tears, and sobbed as if his heart would break. It was partly for Antony, partly for Nancy, partly for himself that he was crying; he was so tired of being naughty, and he wanted so much to be made good again.

Miss Unity was sadly perplexed by the result of her efforts; she seemed to have made matters worse instead of better, and she sat for some minutes in silent dismay by the side of the sobbing David. But having begun she felt she must go on, and taking advantage of a little lull she presently said:

“Was it a nice pig, David?”

“B–b–beautiful.”

“And you miss it?”

This was so evident a fact that David seemed to think it needed no answer, and Miss Unity continued:

“It’s sad to lose anything we know and love. Very hard to bear. It’s quite natural and right to be sorry.”

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

“But though it’s hard, there is something else that is much worse; do you know what that is?”

“No,” said David.

“To be angry with anyone we love,” said Miss Unity solemnly; “that is a very bitter feeling, and hurts us very much. All the while we have it in our hearts we can’t be happy, because anger and love are fighting together.”

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

“And they fight,” she went on, “until one is killed. Very often love is stronger, but sometimes it is anger that conquers, and then sad things follow. In this way, David, much evil has happened in the world from time to time.”

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

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

“Because I’ve lost Antony,” said David at once.

“Yes, that is one reason, but there is a bigger one. It is because you are angry with Nancy.”

David hung his head.

“You’re fond of Nancy, Davie? I’ve heard your mother say that you and she are favourite playfellows.”

“No,” said David, “not now. She promised to shut Antony’s gate—and she forgot.”

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

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

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be fair.”

“Well—you know it’s Nancy’s birthday soon, and she has to choose what present I shall give her?”

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

“When she chooses, would you like me to say: ‘No, Nancy. Because you were careless and forgot David’s pig I shall give you nothing this year?’”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Very well, David,” she said, “it shall be so; but I am sorry you will not forgive your sister.”

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

“Of courseIcould not persuade where others have failed. It was foolish to try. I have no influence with children. I ought to have remembered that.”

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

“If you please,” he said, “I’ve come to say that I’d rather you gave Nancy the kitchen-range—I mean, whatever she chooses for her birthday.”

“Then you’ve forgiven her?” asked Miss Unity excitedly.

“Yes,” said David. “Good-night, because it’s bed-time. Nurse said 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; “itisugly, andsouncomfortable. 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 neverwillstay 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, Penniedidcare 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 prettymustbe good, and that a fair outside meant perfection within.She stood thoughtfully watching Nurse as she put the bonnets away. Itwouldbe 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 weresoexpensive; “but then,” Mrs Hawthorn had added, “the best of them is that theydolast.” 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-maché; 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 suggestedreallyputting 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. “Letmesay. 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 wayshe 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. “Yougo,” 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 hairwasfluffy 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’malwayscalled 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: “Myname’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 itverymuch 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 Ethelwyncouldnot 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 meanpug?”“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, “Ineverheard of a pig as a pet. I don’t believe it’s a proper sort of pet at all. Now,I’vegot a little tiny toy terrier at home, and he has a collar with silver bells. Ihada 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 shecouldnot 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. “Mylast 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. “Ishould 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.“Mewill 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 shecantake, 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.

“Oh, dear me!” said Pennie, looking at herself in the glass over the nursery mantel-shelf; “itisugly, andsouncomfortable. 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 neverwillstay 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, Penniedidcare 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 prettymustbe good, and that a fair outside meant perfection within.

She stood thoughtfully watching Nurse as she put the bonnets away. Itwouldbe 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 weresoexpensive; “but then,” Mrs Hawthorn had added, “the best of them is that theydolast.” 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-maché; 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 suggestedreallyputting 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. “Letmesay. 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 wayshe 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. “Yougo,” 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 hairwasfluffy 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’malwayscalled 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: “Myname’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 itverymuch 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 Ethelwyncouldnot 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 meanpug?”

“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, “Ineverheard of a pig as a pet. I don’t believe it’s a proper sort of pet at all. Now,I’vegot a little tiny toy terrier at home, and he has a collar with silver bells. Ihada 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 shecouldnot 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. “Mylast 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. “Ishould 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.

“Mewill 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 shecantake, 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.

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