“Do you love me, Pen?” said Pauline suddenly, for it occurred to her that perhaps Penelope was the child who would have to accompany her to the midnight picnic. She knew enough of Penelope to be sure that she could be bribed. She was not so certain about the others.
“Do you love me, Pen?” she repeated.
“When you speak in that softy, sympathisy voice, I feel that I could just hug you,” said Penelope.
“Then would you really help me?”
“Really and really. What am I to do? If you will whisper secrets to me, I will even forget that I am certain you know something most ’portant about that thimble, and I will cling to you like anything. You will be the oak, and I will be the ivy. It will be most lovely to be the close friend of the birthday queen. I do—oh, I do hope you are going to tell me a great secret!”
“Perhaps I am, but I can’t tell you now.”
“When will you tell me?”
“If I ever tell you, it will be before midday on my birthday. Now run away. Don’t whisper a word of this.”
“Not me,” said Penelope. “I was borned to keep secrets.”
She marched away in her usual stalwart fashion.