“They’re not a bit like Ethelwyn to look at, though,” said Pennie; “they’re very neat and quiet, and I think not pretty.”
“I suppose Ethelwyn was pretty, but she wasn’t nice,” said Ambrose thoughtfully; “and what a sneak she was about the mandarin!”
Pennie sighed; Ethelwyn and the mandarin were both painful subjects to her, and she felt just now as though the world were full of trials. There was this dreadful dancing-class looming in the distance—something awful and unknown, to which she was daily getting nearer and nearer. Ambrose understood much better than Nancy what she felt about it, and was a much more sympathetic listener, for he knew very well what it was to be afraid, and to dread what was strange and new. Nancy was quite sure that she should hate to learn dancing; but as to being afraid of the dean or any other dignitary, or minding the presence of any number of Merridews, that was impossible to imagine. So as the days went on Pennie confided her troubles chiefly to Ambrose; but she was soon seized with another anxiety in which he could be of no help.
“Those shoes are awfully shabby, mother,” she said one morning; “don’t you think I might have new ones?”
Mrs Hawthorne examined the shoes which Pennie had brought to her.
“Are those your best?” she asked, “it seems quite a short time since you and Nancy had new ones.”
“Nancy’s are quite nice still,” said Pennie sorrowfully; “but just look how brown these toes are, and how they bulge out at the side.”
“They were just the same as Nancy’s when they were bought,” said Mrs Hawthorne; “but if you will stand on one side of your foot, Pennie, of course you wear them out more quickly.”
“I never mean to,” said poor Pennie, gazing mournfully at the shabby shoe, “but it seems natural somehow.”
“Well, you must try harder to remember in future,” said her mother. “I should like to give you new shoes very much, but you know I have often told you I can’t spend much on your clothes, and I’m afraid we must make the old ones do a little longer.”