“What’s that?”
“Miss Unity,” said David with decision.
“Should you call her very ugly?” inquired Ambrose.
“Yes, of course, quite hideous,” replied Nancy indistinctly, with her paint-brush in her mouth.
“Well, I’m not quite sure,” said Pennie; “once I saw her eyes look quite nice, as if they had a light shining at the back of them.”
“Like that face Andrew made for us out of a hollow pumpkin, with a candle inside?” suggested Nancy.
“You’re always so stupid, Nancy!” said Ambrose scornfully. “I know what Pennie means about Miss Unity; I’ve seen her eyes look nice too. Don’t you remember, too, how kind she was when Dickie was so rude to her? I’ve never been so afraid of her since that.”
The next day the party started for Nearminster in the wagonette, David sitting in front with his feet resting comfortably on his own little trunk. Andrew, who drove, allowed him to hold the whip sometimes, and the end of the reins—so it was quite easy to fancy himself a coachman; but this delightful position did not make him forget other things. Beckoning to Nancy, who stood with the rest on the rectory steps, he lifted a solemn finger.
“Remember!” he said.
Nancy nodded, the wagonette drove away followed by wavings, and good-byes, and shrieking messages from the children, and was soon out of sight.