Part 11 (1/2)

It turned out afterwards that Fraulein in the excitement of the moment had forgotten to deliver the message about Nan, so that none expected her at the Vicarage. When she went home the next day Tom said she was quite a ”little heroine.” Nan did not know what that meant, but she was sure it was something pleasant.

And the best of it all was, that after this adventure Nan never felt so frightened of the dark again. But that she kept to herself.

STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 1.

PENELOPE'S NEEDLEWORK--A SHORT STORY.

One of the greatest trials of Penelope's life when she was ten years old was music, and the other, needlework; she could not see any possible use in learning either of them, and none of the arguments put forward by nurse, governess, or mother, made the least impression on her mind. It was especially hard, she thought, that she had to go on with music, because Ralph, her younger brother, had been allowed to leave off.

”Won't you have pity on me, and let me leave off too?” she asked her mother one day imploringly. But mother, though she was touched by the pleading face, and though Penelope's music lessons were household afflictions, thought it better to be firm.

”You see, darling,” she said, ”that now you have got on so much further than Ralph it would be a pity to leave off. You have broken the back of it.”

”Ah, no,” sighed poor Penelope, ”it's broken the back of me.”

And then the needlework! Could there be a duller, more unsatisfactory occupation? Particularly if your st.i.tches _would_ always look crooked and straggling, and when the thimble hurt your finger, and the needle got sticky, and the thread broke when you least expected it. It was quite as bad as music in its way. Penelope would sigh wearily over her task, and envy the people in the Waverley novels, who, she felt sure, never sewed seams or had music lessons.

For the Waverley novels were Penelope's favourite books, and she asked nothing better than to curl herself up in some corner with one of the volumes, and to be left alone.

Then, once plunged into the adventures of ”Ivanhoe,” or ”Quentin Durward,” or the hero of ”The Talisman,” her troubles vanished.

She followed her hero in all his varying fortunes, and was present at his side in battle; she saw him struggling against many foes, fighting for the poor and weak, meeting treachery with truth, and falsehood with faithfulness; she heard the clash of his armour, and watched his good sword flash in the air at the tournament; she trembled for him when he was sore wounded, and rejoiced with him when, after many a hard-won fray, he was rewarded by the hand of his lady love. Those were days indeed! There was something quite remarkably flat and stupid in sitting down to hem a pocket-handkerchief when you had just come from the tourney at Ashby de la Zouche, or in playing exercises and scales while you were still wondering whether King Louis the Eleventh _would_ hang the astrologer or not.

Penelope loved all her books. She had a shelf of her own in the play-room quite full of them, but the joy and pride of her heart were the Waverley novels, which her father had given her on her last birthday.

It was a great temptation to her to spend all her pocket-money in buying new books, but she knew this would have been selfish, so she had made the following arrangement. She kept two boxes, one of which she called her ”charity-box,” and into this was put the half of any money she had given to her; this her mother helped her to spend in a.s.sisting any poor people who specially needed it. The money in the other box was saved up until there was enough to buy a new book, but this did not occur very often. Penelope liked it all the better when it did, for, though she could read some stories over and over again with pleasure, they did not all bear constant study equally well, in some cases, she told her mother, ”it was like trying to dry your face on a wet towel.”

One morning Penelope, or ”Penny,” as she was generally called, was sitting in the nursery window-seat with a piece of sewing in her hands, it seemed more tiresome even than usual, for there was no one in the room but nurse, and she appeared too busy for any conversation. Penny had tried several subjects, but had received such short absent answers that she did not feel encouraged to proceed, so there was nothing to beguile the time, and she frowned a good deal and sighed heavily at intervals. At last she looked up in despair.

”What _can_ you be doing, nurse?” she said, ”and why are you looking at all those old things of mine and Nancy's?”

Nurse did not answer. She held out a little shrunken flannel dress at arm's-length between herself and the light and scanned it critically, then she put it on one side with some other clothes and took up another garment to examine with equal care. Penny repeated her question, and this time nurse heard it.

”I'm just looking out some old clothes for poor Mrs d.i.c.ks,” she said.

”Do you mean _our_ Mrs d.i.c.ks?” asked Penny. ”What does she want clothes for?”

”Well, Miss Penny,” said nurse, proceeding to look through a pile of little stockings, ”when a poor woman's lost her husband, and is left with six children to bring up on nothing, she's glad of something to clothe them with.”

Penny felt interested. ”Our Mrs d.i.c.ks” had been her mother's maid, and after she married the children had often been to visit her, and considered her a great friend. Sometimes they went to tea with her, and once she had given Nancy, Penny's second sister, a lovely fluffy kitten.

Penny was fond of Mrs d.i.c.ks, and it seemed dreadful to think that she must now bring up six children on nothing. She felt, however, that she must inquire into the thing a little more.

”Why must she bring up her six children on nothing?” she asked, letting her work fall into her lap.

”Because,” said nurse shortly, ”she hasn't got any money or anyone to work for her. But if I were you, Miss Penny, I'd get on with my needlework, and not waste time asking so many questions.”

”Well,” said Penny, making fruitless attempts to thread her needle, ”I suppose mother will help her to get some money. I shall ask her to let me give her some out of the charity-box--only I'm afraid there isn't much in it now.”

”If you really wanted to help her,” said nurse, who saw an excellent opportunity for making a useful suggestion, ”you might make some things for her baby; she hasn't much time for sewing, poor soul.”