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Updated: June 10, 2025
"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.
How could they display it to their mother when it was the price of disobedience? Meanwhile Pennie's plan did not make much progress.
Then was Pennie's time then, watching her hearers' upturned faces by the uncertain light of the fire, she saw surprise or pity or horror on them as her story proceeded, and, waxing warmer, she half believed it true herself. And this made the tales very interesting and thrilling. Yet once Pennie's talent had an unfortunate result, as you shall hear in the next chapter.
But he got no answer to his question, for Pennie's long-pent-up feelings burst forth at last. Casting discretion to the winds, she threw her arms vehemently round Ambrose, and blurted out half laughing and half crying: "I made it up! I made it up! There isn't any Goblin Lady. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I made it every bit up!"
Nancy knew, when she saw that, that Pennie's support in the matter of shoes and stockings for Kettles was secure. The even course of Miss Unity's life in her dark old house at Nearminster had been somewhat ruffled lately. A troublesome question, which she could neither dismiss nor answer, presented itself so continually before her that her peace of mind was quite destroyed. It was always there.
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.
Here was another little living creature she could teach, rebuke, praise, and care for, and if Kettles could not fill Pennie's place in Miss Unity's heart, she could at least give it enough to do to keep it warm and active.
She had meant to approach the subject in the most delicate and gradual manner, and now she had rushed into the very thick of it at once. Mrs Hawthorne looked puzzled; she frowned a little. "I do not understand," she said, "what Mrs Merridew can have to do with Pennie's writing too much." "Oh nothing, nothing in the world!" hastily replied Miss Unity; "of course not.
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.
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."
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