“We always have tea with the children at the school feasts at home,” said Nancy.
“That’s quite different, my dear, in your dear papa’s own parish,” said Nurse.
“Are they wicked people in Anchor and Hope Alley?” asked Pennie. “Is Kettles wicked?”
“Poor little soul, no, I wouldn’t say that,” said Nurse. “She’s a great help to her mother and does her best. But she sees things and hears things that you oughtn’t to know anything about, and so she’s not fit company for such as you. And now it’s time to go to the gate.”
As they passed Anchor and Hope Alley on their way to Miss Unity’s house in the Close Pennie stretched her neck to see as far down it as she could.
“How dark and narrow it is! Fancy living there!” she said. “Don’t you wonder which is Kettles’ house?”
“Shouldn’t you like to know,” said Nancy, “what it was that her father did when he came home that night? I do so wish Nurse hadn’t stopped her.”
“What a nice little funny face she had!” said Pennie thoughtfully, “such bright eyes! If it was washed clean, and her hair brushed back smooth, and she had white stockings and a print frock, how do you suppose she’d look?”
“Not half so nice,” said Nancy at once, “all neat and proper, just like one of the school-children at Easney.”
And indeed it was her look of wildness that made Kettles attractive to Pennie and Nancy, used to the trim propriety of well-cared-for village children, who curtsied when you spoke to them, and always said “Miss.” There was a freedom in the glance of Kettles’ eye and a perfect carelessness of good manners in her bearing which was as interesting as it was new.