Miss Unity set down her tea-cup with a nervous clatter as her god-daughter advanced to greet her. Yes, Pennie certainly poked out her chin and shrugged up one shoulder. She had none of the easy grace which adorned the Merridews. All her movements were abrupt. Worst of all, on the middle finger of the hand she held out was a large black stain of ink.
“My dear Pennie,” said her mother significantly as she noticed this.
“Yes, I know, mother,” said Pennie immediately doubling down the offending finger, “I can’t get it off. I’ve tried everything. You see I’ve been writing up the magazine, and there’s such a lot of it, because the others always forget.”
“Then I think I should do without their contributions,” said Mrs Hawthorne.
“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Pennie reproachfully, “there’d be hardly anything in it. It’s a very good one this month,” she added, turning to Miss Unity. “David’s sent quite a long thing on ‘The Habits of the Pig,’ and Ambrose has written an ‘Ode to Spring.’”
“Then why,” inquired Miss Unity, “have you so much writing to do?”
“Well, you see I’m the editor,” explained Pennie, “and all the things have to be copied into the magazine in printing hand by the first of the month. So when the others forget, I do it all.”
“How fast Pennie grows!” began Miss Unity hurriedly as the door closed behind her god-daughter. “You don’t think so much writing makes her stoop too much?”
“Oh, no!” replied Mrs Hawthorne lightly; “it’s a great amusement to her, and she gets plenty of exercise.”
“Because,” continued Miss Unity, speaking so fast that she was almost unintelligible, “if you thought so—I thought—that is, Mrs Merridew thought—you might like her to join a dancing-class at the deanery.”