Pauline could not suppress a short scream, and the next minute she felt herself turning very faint and sick, for Penelope had laid her exceedingly hard little hand on Pauline’s burnt arm.
“What is it, Paulie? I know you are not well,” said Verena, running up.
“It is ’cos of her bad conscience,” said Penelope, turning away with a snort of indignation.
“Really,” said Verena, as Pauline leaned against her and tried hard to repress the shivers of pain that ran through her frame, “Penelope gets worse and worse. Only that I hate telling tales out of school, I should ask Aunt Sophia to send her back to the nursery for at least another year. But what is it, Paulie dear? You look quite ill.”
“I feel rather bad. I have hurt my arm. You must not ask me how, Renny. You must trust me. Oh dear! I must tell you what has happened, for you will have to help me. Oh, Renny, I am in such pain!”
Poor Pauline burst into a torrent of tears. Where was her happiness of an hour ago? Where were her rapturous thoughts of riding Peas-blossom through the Forest? Her arm hurt her terribly; she knew that Penelope was quite capable of making mischief, she was terrified about the thimble. Altogether her brief interval of sunshine was completely blotted out.
Verena, for her years, was a wonderfully wise girl. She had since her mother’s death been more or less a little mother to the younger children. It is true, she had looked after them in a somewhat rough-and-ready style; but nevertheless she was a sympathetic and affectionate girl, and they all clung to her. Now it seemed only natural that Pauline should lean on her and confide her troubles to her. Accordingly Verena led her sister to a rustic seat and said:
“Sit down near me and tell me everything.”
“It is this,” said Pauline. “I have burned my arm badly, and Aunt Sophia must not know.”
“You have burnt your arm? How?”