Not very far from the Roman camp Rumborough Common ended in a rough
rutty road, or rather lane, and about half-way down this stood a small
white cottage with a thatched roof. It was an ordinary labourer's
cottage with the usual patch of garden, just like scores of others round
about; but it possessed a strange and peculiar interest of its own, for
it was not an ordinary labourer who lived there, it was Miss Barnicroft,
with two dogs and a goat.
Now Miss Barnicroft was not in the least like other people, and the
children considered her by far the most interesting object to be seen
near Easney, so that they never passed her lonely dwelling without
trying to get a glimpse of her, or at least of her animals. They were
careful, however, only to take side glances, and to look very grave if
they did happen to see her, for they had been taught to regard her with
respect, and on no account to smile at anything odd in her appearance or
behaviour. "Poor Miss Barnicroft" she was generally called, though
Andrew spoke less politely of her as the "daft lady."
In their walks with Miss Grey it was with a thrill of pleasure that they
sometimes saw the well-known flighty figure approaching, for there was
always something worth looking at in Miss Barnicroft. Her garments were
never twice alike, so that she seemed a fresh person every time.
Sometimes she draped herself in flowing black robes, with a veil tied
closely over her head and round her face. At others she wore a
high-crowned hat decked with gay ribbons, a short skirt, and yellow
satin boots. There was endless variety in her array, but however
fantastic it might be, she preserved through it all a certain air of
dignity and distinction which was most impressive.
Her face, too, was delicate in feature and refined in expression. Her
short upper lip had a haughty curl, and her grey eyes flickered
uncertainly beneath well-marked brows. Although she was not more than
middle-aged her hair was snowy white, and sometimes escaping here and
there in stray locks from her head-dress, added to the strangeness of
her appearance. Miss Barnicroft was indeed quite unlike other people;
her very food was different, for she lived on vegetables and drank
goat's milk. It was even whispered that she did not sleep in a bed, but
in a hammock slung up to the ceiling.
Nothing could be more interesting than all this, but the children did
not see her very often, for she went out seldom and never came to
church. Occasionally, however, she paid a visit to the Vicarage, when
she would ask for the vicar and carry on a very long conversation with
him on all manner of subjects, darting from one to the other with most
confusing speed. Mr Hawthorne did not appreciate these visits very
much, but the children were always pleasantly excited by them. When,
therefore, Nancy caught sight of Miss Barnicroft proceeding up the drive
she abruptly left the subject of Kettles' boots and stockings, and lost
no time in pointing out the visitor to her mother.
"I expect Miss Barnicroft wants to see your father," said Mrs
Hawthorne.
And so indeed it proved, for by the time they reached the door Miss
Barnicroft had been shown into the study, and to their great
disappointment the girls saw her no more.
Ambrose, however, was more fortunate, for it chanced that afternoon that
he had been excused some of his lessons on account of a headache, and at
that very moment was lying flat on the hearth-rug in his father's study
with a book. He was afraid, on the visitor's entrance, that he would be
sent away, but was soon relieved to find that no notice was taken of
him, so that he was able to see and hear all that passed. What a lucky
chance! and what a lot he would have to tell the others!
At first the conversation was not interesting, for it was about some
question of taxation which he did not understand; but suddenly dropping
this, Miss Barnicroft began to tell a story of some white owls who lived
in the keep of a castle in Scotland. Just as the point of this history
was reached she dropped that too, and asked, casting a lofty and
careless glance down at Ambrose:
"Is that one of your children?"
"That is my eldest boy," said the vicar. "Come and speak to Miss
Barnicroft, Ambrose."
"Ah!" said Miss Barnicroft with a coldly disapproving look as Ambrose
shyly advanced, "I don't like boys."
"How is that?" asked Mr Hawthorne.
"They grow to be men," she answered with a shudder, "and even while they
are young there is no barbarity of which they are not capable. I could
believe anything of a boy."
"Dear me!" said the vicar, smiling, "that is very severe; I hope all
boys are not so bad as that!"
"It is greatly, I believe, owing to the unnatural manner in which they
are fed," she continued, turning away from Ambrose. "Most wickedness
comes from eating meat. Violence, and cruelty, and bloodthirstiness
would vanish if men lived on fruit and vegetables."
"Do you think so?" said the vicar mildly; "but women are not as a rule
cruel and bloodthirsty, and they eat meat too."
"Women are naturally better than men, and it does not do them so much
harm; but they would be still better without it. It makes them selfish
and gross," said Miss Barnicroft.
Mr Hawthorne never encouraged his visitor to argue long on this
subject, which somehow crept into all her conversations, however
far-away from it they might begin. So he merely bowed his head in
silence.
Miss Barnicroft rose with an air of having settled the question, but
suddenly sat down again and said with a short laugh:
"By the way, you have thieves in your parish."
"Really! I hope not," said the vicar.
Ambrose, who had retired to his former position on the rug, began to
listen intently. This sounded interesting.
"A month ago," she continued, "I put away some gold pieces for which I
had no use, and they have been stolen."
"Did you lock them up?" asked Mr Hawthorne.
"I did a safer thing than that," said Miss Barnicroft, laughing
contemptuously; "I buried them."
"In your garden?"
"No. I put them into a honey-jar and buried it in what, I believe, is
called the Roman Camp, not far from my house."
The words, spoken in Miss Barnicroft's clear cold tones, fell icily on
Ambrose's ear, and seemed to turn him to stone. He and David were
thieves! It was no antique vessel they had discovered, but a common
honey-pot; no Roman coins, but Miss Barnicroft's money. If only he had
done as David wished, and told his father long ago!
He clasped his hands closely over his scarlet face and listened for the
vicar's answer.
"I don't think you chose a very safe place to hide your money," he said.
"Gypsies and pedlars and tramps are constantly passing over Rumborough
Common. Someone probably saw you bury it there."
"I am more inclined to think that it was stolen by someone in the
parish," said Miss Barnicroft. "They were French napoleons," she added.
"Then you see they would be of no use to anyone living here, for they
could not change them. They were more likely to be dug up by some of
the gypsy people who so often camp about there, and are now far enough
from Easney."
It was truly dreadful to Ambrose to hear his father talk in that calm
soothing tone, and to imagine how he would feel if he knew that his own
son Ambrose had taken Miss Barnicroft's money, and that the hateful
little crock of gold was at that very moment lying quite near him in
David's garden. His heart beat so fast that the sound of it seemed to
fill the room. Would Miss Barnicroft never go away? He longed and yet
dreaded to hear her say good-bye; for after that only one course was
before him--confession.
But she remained some time longer, for she was not at all satisfied to
have the matter treated so quietly. She tried to impress upon Mr
Hawthorne that it was his duty to make a thorough inquiry amongst his
people, for she felt certain, she said with an air of conviction which
made Ambrose tremble, that her money was somewhere in Easney.
"I should advise you in future, Miss Barnicroft," said the vicar when
she at last took her departure, "to bring me anything you wish taken
care of--it would be safer here than burying it. And there's the bank,
you know, in Nearminster. I should be glad to take any money there for
you at any time."
"You are very kind," she answered with an airy toss of the feathers and
ribbons on her head, "but no banks for me. Banks fail."
She flitted out of the room, followed by Mr Hawthorne, and Ambrose was
alone. Now, in a minute, he would have to tell his father. There was
the hall-door shutting; there was his step coming back. How should he
begin?
"Well, my boy," said the vicar, "how's the head? Not much better, I'm
afraid. You look quite flushed. You'd better go to your mother now;
she's just come in."
He sat down and lifted his pen to go on with a letter. Ambrose got up
from the rug and stood irresolute by the door. He tried to say
"Father," but no voice came, and Mr Hawthorne did not look round or ask
what he wanted. It made it so much worse that he did not notice or
suspect anything.
"I can't do it now," said Ambrose to himself, "I must tell David first."
Lessons were only just over in the school-room, and he found David
putting away his books, while Pennie and Nancy, still with their hats
and cloaks on, were talking very fast about all they had seen and done
in Nearminster. How happy they looked! They had nothing dreadful on
their minds. It made Ambrose all the more anxious to have someone to
bear his secret with him, and he went softly up to David and said in a
low voice:
"I want to speak to you."
"All right!" said David rather unwillingly, for he wanted to hear more
about Nearminster and Kettles.
"Not here," whispered Ambrose. "Upstairs--in the museum. It's very
important."
David turned and looked at his brother. Ambrose's cheeks were scarlet,
his eyes had a scared expression, and his hair was sticking up in spikes
as if he had been running his hands through it.
At these certain signs of excitement David at once concluded that
something had happened. He hastily thrust away his last books, and the
two boys left the school-room.
"Is it a ghost?" he asked as they ran up the flight of stairs leading to
the museum.
"Much worse," returned Ambrose. "It's something real. It's awful."
The museum looked bare and cold, and rather dusty, as if it had been
neglected lately; its deal shelves with their large white labels and
wide empty spaces seemed to gape hungrily--a cheerless place altogether,
with nothing comfortable or encouraging about it.
The boys sat down facing each other on two boxes, and Ambrose at once
began his story. Alarming as the news was, he had a faint hope while he
was telling it that David might not think it so bad as he did. David
always took things calmly, and his matter-of-fact way of looking at them
was often a support to Ambrose, whose imagination made him full of
fears. So now when he had finished he looked wistfully at his brother
and said, in a tone full of awe:
"Should you think we really are _thieves_?"
David's blue eyes got very large and round, but before answering this
question he put another: "What can they do to thieves?"
"Put them in prison, and make them work hard for ever so long," replied
Ambrose. "They used to hang them," he added gloomily.
"I don't believe father would let them put us in prison," said David.
"He couldn't help it," said Ambrose. "Nobody's father can. Don't you
remember when Giles Brown stole a silver mug, his father walked ten
miles to ask them to let him off, and they wouldn't?"
"Well, but,"--said David, feeling that there was a difference between
the two cases--"he stole a thing out of a house, and we didn't; and his
father was a hedger and ditcher, and our father is vicar of Easney."
"That wouldn't matter," said Ambrose. "It would depend on Miss
Barnicroft. She wouldn't let us off. She said she couldn't bear boys.
She'd be glad to have us punished."
He rested his chin on his hand and stared forlornly on the ground.
"It's telling father I mind most," he added presently, "much more than
going to prison."
But here David disagreed. He thought it would be dreadful to go to
prison.
"I suppose," he said, "we should be shut up in different cells, and only
have bread and water. I think the sooner we tell father the better,
because he'll think of some way to help us."
"I shall never be able to begin," said Ambrose despairingly.
"Well, you ought to," said David, "because you're older than me, and
because you thought of the whole thing, and because I wanted to tell
long ago, and because I did say when we found it that it was only an old
honey-pot."
Far from being a comfort, every word David spoke seemed to add to the
sharpness of Ambrose's misery, their very truth made them bitter.
"It's no good saying all that now," he cried impatiently. "Oh, I wish I
was in bed and had told father!"
After a little consultation it was agreed that this must be done that
very evening, directly after the school-room tea, when Mr Hawthorne was
generally to be found alone in his study. If he should happen to be
engaged, it must be put off till the next day.
"I hope he wont be," said David, as the boys went down-stairs together,
"because it will be getting dark, and even if the lamp is lighted it
will be much easier than telling it in the daylight."
But Ambrose, in his own heart, could not help a faint hope that their
father might be too busy to speak to them that night. Anything to put
off the confession. He dreaded it far more than David, partly because
he was naturally more timid, and partly because he felt himself chiefly
to blame in the whole affair, for David would certainly never have
thought of the adventure unless his elder brother had suggested it.
During tea-time, therefore, he found it impossible either to join in the
conversation or to eat anything with this dreaded interview still before
him.
Resting his hot cheek on his hand, he looked on with surprise at his
brother's steady appetite, for David, perhaps feeling that this was the
last comfortable meal he might enjoy for some time, munched away with
his usual zeal, not forgetting to ask for the "burnt side" when his
slice of cake was cut. It was hard to realise that all this might be
changed on the morrow for a lonely cell, bread and water, and the
deepest disgrace! Ambrose's headache was considered sufficient reason
for his silence and want of appetite, and his sisters, finding that they
could not even extract any news about Miss Barnicroft's visit from him,
left him undisturbed to his moody misery.
Late that afternoon the vicar came in from a long ride to a distant part
of his parish, threw himself into his easy-chair, and took up the
newspaper for a little rest before dinner. At this hour he was
generally secure from interruption, his day's work was over, the
children were safe in the school-room, there was a comfortable half-hour
before he need think of going upstairs. He was just rejoicing in the
prospect of this repose when a little knock came at his door. It was a
very little knock, one of many which Ambrose and David had already made
so timidly that they could not be heard at all. With a patient sigh Mr
Hawthorne laid his paper across his knees and said, "Come in."
The door opened very slowly and the boys entered, David somewhat in
front, holding Ambrose by the hand. Their father saw at once that they
had something of importance on their minds, for while Ambrose kept his
eyes fixed on the ground, David's were open to their widest extent with
a sort of guilty stare. Neither spoke a word, but marched up to Mr
Hawthorne and stood in perfect silence at his elbow.
"Well?" said the vicar inquiringly.
Ambrose gave a twitch to David's sleeve, for he had promised to speak
first.
"We've come to say--" began David and then stopped, his eyes getting
bigger and rounder, but not moving from his father's face.
"Go on," said Mr Hawthorne.
But David seemed unable to say anything more. He turned to his brother
and whispered hoarsely, "You go on now."
Ambrose had gathered a little courage now that the confession had really
begun, and he murmured without looking up:
"We know where Miss Barnicroft's money is."
The vicar started. He had in truth forgotten all about Miss Barnicroft
and her money, for he had thought it merely one of her own crazy
inventions. That Ambrose and David should have anything to do with it
seemed impossible, and yet the guilty solemn looks of the two little
boys showed that they were in the most serious earnest.
"Miss Barnicroft's money!" he repeated.
"It's in my garden," continued David, taking his turn to speak,
"buried."
Completely bewildered Mr Hawthorne looked from one face to the other.
"I don't know what you're both talking about," he said. "Ambrose, you
are the elder, try to explain what you mean, and how you and David come
to know anything about Miss Barnicroft's money."
That was not so easy, but at last, by dint of some help from David and
many questions from his father, Ambrose halted lamely through the
history. He had a feeling that the vicar's face was getting graver and
graver as he went on, but he did not dare to look up, and it was David
who asked anxiously when he had finished:
"Are we thieves, father? Will she put us in prison?"
"Did you remember, Ambrose," said Mr Hawthorne, "when you asked your
brother to go with you to Rumborough Camp, that you and he are strictly
forbidden to go so far alone?"
"Yes, father," whispered Ambrose, "but we did so want things for the
museum."
"And when you had taken all this trouble to get them, why did you not
put the coins into the museum?"
"Because," put in David, "we were afraid the others would ask where we
got them. But we didn't know they belonged to Miss Barnicroft, so _are_
we thieves, father?"
That seemed to David the one important point to be settled. If they
were not thieves they would not be sent to prison.
"As far as Miss Barnicroft is concerned, you are not thieves," replied
Mr Hawthorne.
David gave a sigh of relief.
"But--" he continued gravely, "you and Ambrose have stolen something
from me of much more value than Miss Barnicroft's money. Do you know
what that is?"
The boys were silent.
"Listen, and I will try to explain what I mean," said the vicar; "and I
speak more particularly to you, Ambrose, because you are older than
David, and he did wrong through your persuasion. When you dug the coins
up you did not know that you were taking what belonged to someone else,
but you did know very well that you were disobedient in going there at
all. That is what was wrong, and by doing that you have destroyed my
trust in you. Now, trust in anyone is a most precious thing, more
precious a great deal than Miss Barnicroft's money, and much harder to
give back when it is once lost. The money you will return to-morrow;
but how are you going to restore my trust? That is not to be done in a
moment. Sometimes, after we once lose a person's trust, we can never
give it back at all, and that is very sad, because nothing else in the
world makes up for it."
"Sha'n't you ever trust us any more?" asked David bluntly, with his eyes
full of tears.
"I hope so," said his father, "but that must depend on yourselves. You
will have to show me that you are worthy of trust."
Crest-fallen and sorrowful, the boys crept out of the study when the
interview was over.
"I do believe," said Ambrose, "I would rather have been sent to prison,
or have had some very bad punishment."
"It'll be rather bad, though, to-morrow to have to take it back to Miss
Barnicroft, won't it?" said David. "Do you suppose father will go in
with us?"
That very evening, in the twilight, the crock with its glittering pieces
was unearthed for the second time, but with far less labour than at
first.
"I'm glad it's out of my garden anyway," said David as they went back to
the house with it.
"I'm not glad of anything," replied Ambrose despairingly; and indeed he
felt that he should never care about pleasure or be happy again until
his father had said that he could trust him.
Snuff, the terrier, knew quite well the next morning when the boys
started with their father that there was something wrong. No smiles, no
shouts, no laughter, no throwing of sticks for him to fetch--only two
sad and sober little boys marching along by the vicar's side. The dog
tried at first, by dancing round them with short barks and jumps, to
excite the dull party into gaiety, but soon finding no response forsook
them altogether, and abandoned himself heart and soul to a frantic
rabbit hunt. Rumborough Common looked coldly desolate as ever, and as
they passed the Camp and saw the very hole where the crock had been
buried an idea struck David.
"Mightn't we put it where we got it, and tell her it's there?" he asked.
But the vicar would not hear of this.
"You must give it back into Miss Barnicroft's own hands," he answered,
"and tell her how you came to dig it up. Perhaps Ambrose had better go
in alone, and we will wait here in the lane for him."
Arrived at Miss Barnicroft's gate, Ambrose hung back and cast an
imploring glance at his father. He had wished for a "bad punishment;"
but it was too dreadful to face all the unknown terrors of Miss
Barnicroft's house alone.
"Come, Ambrose," said Mr Hawthorne encouragingly, "you must take
courage. It is never easy to confess our faults, but there is nothing
really to fear. It will soon be over."
Ambrose pushed open the gate, and with the crock under his arm crept a
few steps towards the cottage door. Then he turned, his face white with
fear.
"You won't go away till I come out," he said. David had been standing
by his father's side, feeling very much relieved that he was not to go
in and see Miss Barnicroft. He had still a lingering doubt in his mind
that she might wish to send him and his brother to prison. But when
Ambrose gave that frightened look back, something made him feel that he
must go in too; he left his father without a word, went up to Ambrose,
and took hold of his hand.
"I'll go in with you," he said.
How often they had longed to see the inside of this mysterious dwelling,
and yet now that the moment had come, how gladly would they have found
themselves safely at home in the Vicarage! Pennie and Ambrose had vied
with each other in providing strange and weird articles of furniture and
ornaments for it; but the reality was almost startlingly different.
When, after several knocks, the boys were told to "come in," they
entered a room which was just like that in any other cottage, except
that it was barer. There was, indeed, scarcely any furniture at all, no
curtain to the window, no pictures on the blank whitewashed walls, and
only a very tiny square of carpet on the floor. A common deal table
stood in the middle of this, and two deal boxes or packing-cases seemed
to serve for seats; on the wide hearth, a fire of sticks was crackling
under a kettle which hung over it by a chain, and two dogs which had
been asleep, got up and growled at the strangers. There was nothing the
least strange in the room, unless it was Miss Barnicroft herself, who,
with her head tied up in a white cotton handkerchief, sat on one of the
boxes, writing busily in a book. She gazed at her two visitors without
knowing them at first, but soon a light came into her eyes.
"Ah, the vicar's little boys, I think?" she said graciously. "Pray sit
down."
She waved her hand with the majesty of a queen towards the other box,
and the boys, not daring to dispute her least sign, bestowed themselves
upon it, as close together as possible, with the fatal little crock
squeezed between them. There they sat for a minute in silence staring
at Miss Barnicroft, who, with her head bent gently forward and a look of
polite inquiry, waited to hear their errand.
It was so dreadful to see her sitting there, and to know how her face
would change presently, that Ambrose had a wild impulse to run out of
the room and leave the crock to tell its own tale. He gave a glance at
David, and saw by the way he had placed his hands on his knees, and
fixed his eyes immovably on Miss Barnicroft, that he had no intention of
either moving or speaking. Ambrose was the elder; it was for him to
take the lead. There were times when Ambrose would cheerfully have
given up all the rights and privileges belonging to that position, and
this was one of them, but he knew that he must make an effort. Father
was waiting outside. They could not sit there in silence any longer.
He must speak.
Seizing the crock, he suddenly rushed up to Miss Barnicroft, held it
out, and said huskily:
"We've come to bring back this!"
David now slid off the box and placed himself gravely at his brother's
side. Miss Barnicroft looked from the boys to the crock with a
satirical light in her eyes.
"And may I ask where you found it?" she said with icy distinctness which
seemed to cut the air like a knife.
"In Rumborough Camp," murmured Ambrose.
"I knew the thief was in your father's parish," said Miss Barnicroft,
"and I'm not surprised to find that it's a boy; but I certainly didn't
suspect the vicar's own son."
"We didn't know the money was yours," broke in David, "and father says
we are not thieves."
"At any rate," returned Miss Barnicroft, fixing him sharply with her
cold light eyes, "you knew it wasn't yours. _I_ was always taught that
to take what was not mine was stealing."
"We thought it was Roman," said David, still undaunted, "and they're all
dead." Then, seeing no reason for staying longer, he added quickly,
"Good-bye! father's waiting for us."
"Oh, really!" said Miss Barnicroft, rising with a short laugh. "Well,
you can give him my compliments, and say that I haven't altered my
opinion of boys, and that I advise him to teach you your catechism,
particularly your duty towards your neighbour."
As the boys made hurriedly for the doorway, she suddenly called to them
in quite a different voice,--"Stay a minute. Won't you have some
ambrosia before you go?"
Ambrose had no idea what ambrosia could be, but he at once concluded
that it was something poisonous.
"No, thank you," he said, pulling David's sleeve to make him refuse too.
"It's honey and goat's milk," said Miss Barnicroft persuasively; "very
delicious. You'd better taste it."
"We'd much rather not, thank you," said Ambrose with a slight shudder,
and in another second he and David had unlatched the door, scudded down
the garden like two frightened rabbits, and joined their father.
At the Vicarage, all this while, their return had been eagerly looked
for by Pennie and Nancy. They had heard the whole adventure of
Rumborough Common and the crock of gold with much interest, and although
the boys had been wrong to disobey orders, and were now in disgrace, it
was impossible not to regard them with sympathy. They had been through
so much that was unusual and daring that they were in some sort heroes
of romance, and now this was increased by their having penetrated into
that abode of mystery, Miss Barnicroft's cottage.
It was somewhat consoling to the boys, after their real alarm and
discomfort, to be received in this way at home, and questioned with so
much eagerness as to their experiences. Ambrose, indeed, warming to the
subject, was inclined to give a very highly-coloured description of what
had passed, and would soon have filled Miss Barnicroft's dwelling with
wonderful objects, if he had not been kept in check by David, who always
saw things exactly as they were, and had a very good memory.
"When we went in," began Ambrose, "some immense dogs got up and barked
furiously."
"Weren't you frightened?" asked Pennie.
"I wasn't," replied David, "because there were only two--quite small
ones, not bigger than Snuff, and they only growled."
"Miss Barnicroft had got her head all bound up in linen," pursued
Ambrose, "like the picture of Lazarus in the big Bible."
"It was a pocket-handkerchief," said David. "I saw the mark in one
corner."
"What was in the room?" asked Nancy.
"Nothing," said David, "except Miss Barnicroft, and two boxes and a
table, and the dogs."
"Oh, _David_!" broke in Ambrose in a tone of remonstrance; "there was a
great cauldron smoking over the fire, a regular witch's cauldron!"
"I don't know what a cauldron is," said David; "but there was a black
kettle, if you mean that."
"And only think, Pennie," continued Ambrose; "she offered us something,
she called _ambrosia_. I daresay it was made of toadstools and
poisonous herbs picked at night."
"She said it was honey and goat's milk," finished David; "but we didn't
taste it."
As long as there remained anything to tell about Miss Barnicroft,
Ambrose was quite excited and cheerful; but soon after the adventure had
been fully described, he became very quiet, and presently gave a heavy
sigh; on being asked by Pennie what was the matter, he confided to her
that he never could be happy again, because father had said he was not
fit to be trusted.
"It doesn't matter so much about David," he added mournfully; "but you
see I'm so much older. Do you think there's anything I could do?
anything very dangerous and difficult?"
"Like Casabianca," said Pennie, thinking of a poem she was fond of
reciting:
"The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled."
"Oh, don't go on," cried Nancy, "about that stupid boy. He couldn't
have supposed his father wanted him to stop there and be all burnt up.
I'm sure he wasn't fit to be trusted."
"We're not to have any pocket-money for a month," continued Ambrose,
taking no notice of Nancy; "but I don't mind that a bit. It's the other
I mind."
Pennie was sorry for her brother; but this last remark turned her
thoughts another way. No pocket-money! She glanced ruefully at her
china-house. Fate was certainly against Miss Unity's mandarin. Nancy
saw the glance and smiled triumphantly.
"There, you see!" she exclaimed. "There's nobody left to give anything
to it, so you'd much better give it up, and begin to collect for
Kettles."
In season and out of season she never ceased to impress this on Pennie,
and although they did not see Kettles again after meeting her at the
College, she soon became quite a familiar acquaintance. The little
girls carried on a sort of running chronicle, in which Kettles was the
chief character, and was made to do and say various surprising things.
Those were mostly suggested by Pennie, for Nancy, though equally
interested, would much have preferred a glimpse of the real Kettles
herself. She never could secure this, though, whenever she drove into
Nearminster, she hung over the waggonette to peer into Anchor and Hope
Alley with such earnestness that she nearly toppled over. Once she was
somewhat repaid by seeing a ragged man in a long coat and battered hat
turn into the alley.
"Pennie," she said, directly she got back, "I do believe I've seen
Kettles' father."
All these talks and fancies made Pennie feel weaker and weaker in
holding to her own plan.
She was tired of standing quite alone, and though her pride was still a
little hurt at her failure, she could not help seeing how much more
interesting it was to have Nancy's sympathy and help.
So, one day, she took her money out of the china-house, rubbed the label
off the door, and restored the box to David. Nancy knew, when she saw
that, that Pennie's support in the matter of shoes and stockings for
Kettles was secure.