"And is she not—herself?" says I.
"True!" Jack nodded, "and as stubborn as—as—"
"Her father!" added Bentley. "Why, Jack—Dick—I tell you she's ruled us all with a rod of iron ever since she used to climb up our knees to pull at our wigs with her little, mischievous fingers!"
"Such very small, pink fingers!" says I, sighing. "Indeed we've spoiled her wofully betwixt us."
"Ha!" snorted Jack, "and who's responsible for all this, I say; who's petted and pampered, and coddled and condoned her every fault? Why—you, Dick and Bentley. When I had occasion to scold or correct her, who was it used to sneak behind my back with their pockets bulging with cakes and sticky messes? Why, you, Dick and Bentley!"
"You scold her, Jack?" says Bentley, "yes, egad! in a voice as mild as a sucking dove! And when she wept, you'd frown tremendously to hide thine own tears, man, and end by smothering her with your kisses. And thus it has ever been—for her dead mother's sake!"
"But now," says I after a while, "the time is come to be resolute, for her sake—and her mother's."
"Aye," cries Jack, "we must be firm with her, we must be resolute! Penelope's my daughter and shall obey us for once, if we have to lock her up for a week. I'll teach her that our will is law, for once!"
"You're in the right on 't, Jack," says I, "we must show her that she can't ride rough-shod over us any longer. We must be stern to be kind."
"We must be adamant!" says Bentley, his eyes twinkling.