“She carries glowworms with her,” answered Pennie; “they shine just like the lamps in father’s gig at night, and light up all the garret.”
“Now, go on, Pennie,” said Ambrose with a deep sigh, for these interruptions were very trying to him. “Once she was a beautiful—”
“A most beautiful lady, with long golden hair. Only she was very very proud and vain. So after she died she could not rest, but has to go flying about wherever the wind will take her. The only pleasure she has is music, and so she always tries to get in where there is anything to play. That is why she goes so often to the garret and plays the harp.”
“Why doesn’t she go into the drawing-room and play the piano?” asked Nancy bluntly. Nancy’s questions were often very tiresome; she never allowed the least haze or uncertainty to hang over any subject, and Pennie was frequently checked in the full flow of her eloquence by the consciousness that Nancy’s eye was upon her, and that she was preparing to put some matter-of-fact inquiry which it would be most difficult to meet.
“There you go, interrupting again,” muttered Ambrose.
“Well, but why doesn’t she?” insisted Nancy, “it would be so much easier.”
“Why, of course she can’t,” resumed Pennie in rather an injured voice, “because of the lights, and the people, and, besides, she never learnt to play the piano.”
“I wish I needn’t either,” sighed Nancy. “How nice to be like the Goblin Lady, and only play the harp when one likes!”
“I should like to see her,” said Ambrose thoughtfully.
“You’d be afraid,” said Nancy; “why, you wouldn’t even go into the garret by daylight alone.”