“Oh! don’t tell her to do that,” said Patty, in some alarm. “I have been so pining for my rides.”
“There’s that mouse again,” said Briar.
The children now looked under the little beds, and under the farther one there was something which would certainly have preferred to be thought an enormous mouse. On being dragged to the front, the stout, dishevelled figure of Penelope Dale was discovered.
“I comed a-purpose,” said Pen, who did not look the least taken aback. “I saw by your faces that you were up to fun, and I thought I’d like to be in it. It is well I comed. I am willing to talk to you about everything. Call me a mouse if you like. I don’t care. I meant to listen. I am glad I comed.”
“You are too mean for anything,” said Briar. “You are the horridest girl I ever came across. Why did you dare to hide under my bed in order to listen to what I had to say to Patty?”
“I knew it all afore,” said Penelope, “so that wasn’t why I comed. I comed to keep you from doing mischief. What are you going to tell to-morrow?”
“That isn’t your business,” said Briar.
“But I am going to make it my business. What you have to tell isn’t news to me. You are going to ’fess ’cos of the pain in your little hearts. You must keep your pain, and you must not ’fess. You are going to tell Aunt Sophy about that wicked, wicked birthday night—how you stole away in the dark across the lawn, and wore your Glengarry caps, and how you didn’t come back until the morning. But you mustn’t tell. Do you hear me, Briar and Patty?”
“But why not? Why should you talk to us like that?” asked Patty. “Why shouldn’t we say exactly what we like?”
“You mustn’t tell ’cos of Paulie. She is ill—more ill than you think. She mustn’t be punished, nor fretted, nor teased, nor worrited. If you tell it will worrit her, so you mustn’t tell. Why do you want to tell? You have kept it dark a long time now.”