Friswith Hall was returning from Cranbrook in a state of great satisfaction. She had made an excellent bargain; and she was the sort of girl to whose mind a bargain had the flavour of a victory. In the first place, she had squeezed both coif and ribbon out of her money; and in the second, she had—as she fondly believed—purchased an article worth one-and-tenpence for eighteenpence.
As she came up to the last stile she had to pass, Friswith saw two girls sitting on it—the elder a slender, delicate-looking girl of some fourteen years, the younger a sturdy, little, rosy-faced damsel of seven. They looked up on hearing steps, and the elder quitted her seat to leave Friswith room to pass.
“Good-morrow, Pen! So you’ve got Patience there?”
“I haven’t much, I’m afraid,” said Pen, laughing. “I came out here because the lads made such a noise I could scarce hear myself speak; and I wanted to teach Patience her hymn. Charity knows hers; but Patience learns slower.”
“Are they with you, then—both?”
“For a few days. Mistress Bradbridge is gone to visit her brother at Chelmsford, so she left her little maids with Mother.”
“What a company must you be! How can you ever squeeze into the house?”
“Oh, folks can squeeze into small corners when they choose,” said Penuel Pardue, with a smile. “A very little corner will hold both Charity and Patience.”
“Then you haven’t much of either,” answered Friswith satirically. “Look you here, Pen!”
And unrolling her ribbon, she displayed its crimson beauties.