“But am I, nursey? Speak.”
“I suppose so, Miss Pen.”
“I thought so,” answered Pen, with a sigh. “I thought as much. I am bad through and through, then. They never eat good uns. You know that, don’t you, nursey? They wouldn’t touch Marjorie, though she is so round and so white and so fat; and they wouldn’t look at Adelaide or Josephine, or any of those dull ones of the family; but they’d eat me up, and poor Paulie. Oh! they’d have a nice meal on Paulie. Thank you, nursey. I am glad I know.”
“What is the child driving at?” thought nurse as Penelope marched away. “Would lions crunch her up, and would they crunch up Miss Paulie? Mercy me! I wouldn’t like any of us to be put in their way. I do hope Miss Pen won’t go off her head after a time; she is too queer for anything. But what is wrong with Miss Pauline? I don’t like what she said about Miss Pauline.”
When nurse saw Pauline she liked matters even less. For though her dearly beloved young lady looked quite well in health, her eyes were no longer bright, and she did not take the slightest interest in the different things which the children had to show her. When asked if she would not like to visit the stables, now in perfect restoration, and see for herself those darling, most angelic creatures that went by the names of Peas-blossom and Lavender, she said she was tired and would rather sit in the rocking-chair on the lawn.
The others, accompanied by Aunt Sophia, went off to view the ponies; and then at the last moment Pen came back. She flung herself on the ground at Pauline’s feet.
“I has quite made up my mind for ever and ever,” she said. “Not even lions will drag it from me.”
“What?” asked Pauline.
“Why, all that I know: about who stole the thimble, and about the picnic on the birthday, and about what Briar and Patty did, and about you, Paulie, and all your wicked, wicked ways. I meant to tell once, but I will never tell now. So cheer up; even lions won’t drag it from me.”