"An Petronia?" The old woman shook her head. "There's no telling," she said. "It'll take a better head nor what I have to say what that child's thinkin' on. She's that deep and only eight years old come Michaelmas. She takes up with such funny people——" Mrs. Pottle stopped, confused and reddening at Merle's amused smile of acknowledgment. "Oh, Lor', sir; I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't mean——"
"That's all right, Mrs. Pottle," said the curate kindly. "What do you think? Your grandchild confided to me the other day that she is writing a book."
"Petronia writing a book! Well, I never!" exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Pottle. "It must be in her blood. And now I think of it, sir, her stepfather once kept a little stationery shop down Millbrook way—so it does come natural to her, doesn't it, sir?"
Merle laughed. "But you mustn't tell any one, Mrs. Pottle. It's a secret. No one knows about it but Petronia and you and me." He looked at his watch. "Half-past two; I must be going. The bazaar opens at half past three; there's plenty of time, I know, but I fear to take any chances."
As the wicket gate closed behind the curate Mrs. Pottle ran down the path. "If you're going by the road, sir," she called after him, "you'll be meeting Petronia. She walked to the village over an hour ago with the little Royse girl and Freddy Nichol. It's Freddy's birthday and he's got a bright new threepenny bit to spend, and they're going to——"
Horatio, taking advantage of a compulsory pause for breath on the part of Mrs. Pottle, thanked her hurriedly and set off at a brisk pace toward Ippingford, and, so steadfastly did the good man set his face against the temptations of the wayside, that in less than half an hour he had passed the main street of the village and was within five minutes' walk of St. Timothy's parish house.
Then, to his great relief, the curate found by his watch that he had almost half an hour to spare. It was a welcome reprieve, such was Horatio's dread of this sudden plunge back into public life. Every moment was precious—what should he do?
"What a pity I did not meet An Petronia," he said to himself. She was a great friend of Horatio's, this strange little maid with gold-red hair and questioning deep-set eyes and that odd smile. Many were the walks and talks they had together, Petronia holding on by the curate's forefinger, asking questions. Such questions! How many buttercups full of rain can a mouse drink? Telling him tremendous secrets and confiding to him all her troubles, what mountains of troubles! And yet Merle had never heard Petronia cry, not even the time when she was bitten by the frightened squirrel, whose foot she freed from the weasel trap, did An Petronia cry. Once when she had been disobedient and Mrs. Pottle had felt it necessary to whip her granddaughter, the child had not uttered a sound, which so frightened the old lady that she had never lifted a hand to the child since and never would.
The sound of children laughing startled Horatio from his reverie. He was passing the little sweetshop at the end of the village street, kept by one Mrs. Beadle, and behold, there was An Petronia surrounded by a mob of laughing, chattering playmates. They were looking in at the window and playing some game of Petronia's invention, in which the objects displayed in the shop window played an important part.
"Freddy Nichol, that's not fair! Peppermints doesn't gwow on twees," Petronia was saying in her odd, low-pitched voice as Merle came up to the group.