"Why, deary," said Frampa, "what is the matter? I did it myself. The bad men have followed us here. So Nora is going to wear your clothes, and I have got this for you to put on, so that the men will not know you. Come, I will help you put it on."
"O Frampa!" said Penelophon, with a shudder, "I cannot; indeed, I cannot. I should die of shame."
"Tut, tut, deary!" said Frampa, "be a woman. You need not be afraid. You can stay here all alone, and no one will see you. So come now and put it on, and make yourself safe."
"But are you sure no one will see me?" asked Penelophon.
"Why, of course not, child," answered Frampa cheerily. "You know no one can come here but I. There, there, that's a little woman." Frampa raised up her protégée as she spoke with motherly tenderness, and Penelophon, trembling from head to foot, allowed herself to be clad in the actress's dress. But when it was on, and she saw how flaunting and shameless it was, and how it hardly covered her more than her own shift, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
"There, there, deary," cried Frampa soothingly, "don't take on so. 'Tis nothing to cry over. Many a bonny lass would jump for joy to make such a pretty figure as you do now."
"I know, I know!" sobbed Penelophon, whose trouble was only increased by Frampa's admiration, "but I cannot help it. I will try to bear it because you are so kind; but I am so unhappy, and O Frampa! my head aches past bearing."
"Well, never mind," cooed Frampa; "have a good cry and lie down a bit. There now, that is it. Shut your eyes, and let me charm your pain away."
So Penelophon did as she was told, and soon felt that Frampa was stroking her face with something very pleasant and soft, while she sang a low-toned charm like a lullaby. It was soothing, and seemed to take away the pain. So Penelophon lay quite still and left off crying.
Frampa's conjuring had gone on for some time, when all at once the door opened and she stopped. Penelophon looked up. Bocco's sharp face and bright black eyes were peering in.