She ran into the shrubbery, and stood there thinking for a time. She was a queer-looking little figure as she stood thus in her short holland overall, her stout bare legs, brown as berries, slightly apart, her head thrown back, her hair awry, a smudge on her cheek, her black eyes twinkling.
“I will do it,” she said to herself. “Aunt Sophy shall find out that I am the good one of the family.”
Penelope ran wildly across the shrubbery, invaded the kitchen-garden, invaded the yard, and presently invaded the house. She found Miss Sophia sitting by her writing-table. Miss Sophia had a headache; teaching was not her vocation. She had worked harder that day than ever in her life before, and she had a great many letters to write.
It was therefore a very busy and a slightly cross person who turned round and faced Penelope.
“Don’t slam the door, Penelope,” she said; “and don’t run into the room in that breathless sort of way.”
“Well, I thought you ought for to know. I done it ’cos of you.”
“‘I did it because of you,’ you should say.”
“I did it because of you. I am very fond of you, aunt.”
“I hope so; and I trust you will prove your affection by your deeds.”
“Bovver deeds!” remarked Penelope.