“Pauline’s cheeks are rather too pale,” answered Miss Tredgold.
She did not reprove Penelope, for in spite of herself she sometimes found a smile coming to her face at the child’s extraordinary remarks.
Presently Penelope slipped away. She went thoughtfully across the lawn. Her head was hanging, and her whole stout little figure testified to the fact that she was meditating.
“Off to the sea!” she muttered softly to herself. “Off to the big briny waves, to the wadings, to the sand castles, to the shrimps, to the hurdy-gurdies, and all ’cos she’s palefied. I wish I could be paled.”
She ran into the house, rushed through the almost deserted nursery, and startled nurse out of her seven senses with a wild whoop.
“Nursey, how can I be paled down?”
“Nonsense, child! Don’t talk rubbish.”
“Am I pale, nursey, or am I a rosy sort of little girl?”
“You are a sunburnt, healthy-looking little child, with no beauty to fash about,” was nurse’s blunt response.
“Am I healthy-looking?”