PEN VICTORIOUS.
Penelope managed to reach home unattended. She was tired and draggled and dusty, and also very much scratched. Her sisters received her with whoops of astonishment and welcome. They had not missed her, it is true, but when they saw her coming sadly and sheepishly in at the wicket-gate they concluded that they had. Adelaide was the first to reach her.
“Don’t ask me any questions and you’ll hear no lies,” was Pen’s remark. She waved her fat hand as she spoke. “I am going to nursey straight away. I has something I wants to say to nursey. Has the post gone? I want to catch the post immediate.”
“You are too queer for anything,” said Adelaide; “but go your own way. You’ll catch it for being out all by yourself in the woods.”
“I won’t catch it, but there are others who will,” replied Penelope. “And now keep out of my way. I want to find nursey.”
She marched in a most defiant and even queenly style towards the house; and the others, after laughing for a moment, returned to their various pursuits and forgot all about her.
When nurse saw Penelope she uttered a groan.
“There you come,” she said. “You are a handful! You never turned up at dinner-time, although we looked for you everywhere. Now, where were you hiding?”
“Never mind that, nursey. Get out your writing ’terials.”
“Now, whatever does the child mean? Sakes! you are scratched, and your nice new holland frock is all torn, and you are dusty and pale and trembling—as pale and trembling as can be.”