“Why,” she said when she saw Pen, “wherever did you drop from?”
Pen began to cry.
“I wor ’termined to come,” she said. “I wanted to see you most tur’ble bad.”
“Poor little thing!” said the farmer. “She’s got a bit of a fright. What do you think, Nancy? Lurcher had little miss by her skirt. He’d pinned her, so to speak, and he wouldn’t let go, not if she fainted; and she was that brave, little dear, that she didn’t do anything but just stood still, with her face as white as death.”
“Wor I paled down?” said Pen. “Do tell me if I wor paled down a bit.”
“You were as white as death, you poor little pretty,” said the farmer; and then he kissed the little girl on her broad forehead, and hurried off to expostulate with regard to Lurcher.
Nancy took Pen into the house, and sat down in a cosy American rocking-chair with the little girl in her lap. She proceeded to gorge her with caramels and chocolates. Pen had never been so much fussed over before; and, truth, to tell, she had seldom enjoyed herself better.
“I wor ‘termined—’termined to come,” she repeated several times. At last her sobs ceased altogether, and she cuddled up against Nancy and went to sleep in her arms.
Nancy lifted her up and put her on the horse-hair sofa; she laid a rug over her, and then stooped and kissed her. Afterwards she went out and joined her father.
“Whatever brought little miss here?” asked the farmer.