Girls of the Forest Part 40

"Father could give me something," thought Pen. "He could and he ought.

I'll ask him. Dad!" she called.

Mr. Dale did not answer.

"Dad!" called Pen again.

He looked up with a fretful expression.

"Go away, my dear," he said. "I am particularly busy."

"I will if you'll give me sixpence."

"Go away."

Pen's father bent again over his book. He forgot Penelope.

"He's sure to give me sixpence if I worrit him long enough," thought the naughty little girl.

She stood close to the window. Suddenly it occurred to her that if she drew down the blind, which she could easily do by pus.h.i.+ng her hand inside the window and then planting her fat little person on the window-sill, she would cause a shadow to come before the light on her father's page.

"That will make him look up," she thought. "When he does I'll ask him again for sixpence. I'll tell him I won't go away till I get it."

She sat down on the window-sill, cleverly manipulating the blind, and Mr.

Dale found an unpleasant darkness steal over his page.

"Draw up that blind and go away, Penelope," he said. "Do you hear? Go away."

"I will 'mediately you give me sixpence. I will draw up the blind and I'll go away," said Pen.

"I will give you nothing. You are an extremely naughty little girl."

Penelope sat on. Mr. Dale tried to read in the darkening light. Presently he heard a sniff. The sniff grew louder.

"My froat," said Penelope.

He glanced towards her. She was sitting huddled up; her back looked very round.

"Do go away, child. What is wrong?"

"My froat. I want something to moisten it. It is so dry, it hurts me."

"Go and get a drink of water."

"Oh, my froat! Oh, my tum-tum! Oh, my froat!" said Penelope again.

Mr. Dale rose from his seat at last.

"I never was so worried in my life," he said. "What is it, child? Out with it. What is wrong?"

Penelope managed to raise eyes brimful of tears to his face.

"If you knowed that your own little girl was suffering from bad froat and doubly-up tum-tum, and that sixpence would make her well--quite, really, truly well--wouldn't you give it to her?" said Penelope.

"How can sixpence make you well? If you really have a sore throat and a pain we ought to send for the doctor."

"Sixpence is much cheaper than the doctor," said Penelope. "Sixpence will do it."

"How?"

"It will buy peppermints."

"Well, then, here it is, child. Take it and be off."

Penelope s.n.a.t.c.hed it. Her face grew cheerful. She shot up the blind with a deft movement. She jumped from her seat on the window-ledge. She was no longer doubled up.

"Thank you, dad," she said. "Thank you--thank you."

She rushed away.

"I'll have another sixpence to-morrow," she thought. "That's a whole beautiful s.h.i.+lling. I will do fine when I am at the seaside."

Penelope could scarcely sleep that night. She got up early the next morning. She was determined to stand at the gate and watch for the postman. The letters usually arrived about eight o'clock. The postman hove in sight, and Pen rushed to meet him.

"Have you letters--a letter for me?" she asked.

"No, Miss Penelope, but there is one for your nurse."

"It is from Easterhaze," said the child. "Thank you--thank you, posty."

She s.n.a.t.c.hed the first letter away from the old man and darted away with it. Into the nursery she rushed.

"Here it is, nursey. Open it, quick! I am to go; I know I am."

Nurse did open the letter. It was from Miss Tredgold, and it ran as follows:

"DEAR NURSE: Penelope is evidently too much for you. I intend to remain two or three days longer in this pleasant place, so do not expect me home next week. I shall have Penelope here, so send her to me by the first train that leaves Lyndhurst Road to-morrow. Take her to the station and put her into the charge of the guard. She had better travel first-cla.s.s.

If you see any nice, quiet-looking lady in the carriage, put Penelope into her charge. I enclose a postal order for expenses. Wire to me by what train to expect the child."

The letter ended with one or two more directions, but to these Pen scarcely listened. Her face was pale with joy. She had worked hard; she had plotted much; she had succeeded.

"I feel as though I'd like to be really quite good," was her first thought.

Nurse expected that she would be nearly mad with glee; but she left the nursery quietly. She went downstairs quietly. Her sisters were at breakfast. She entered the room and stood before them.

"Pennies, please," she said.

"What do you mean?" asked Briar, who was pouring out coffee.

"Pennies from all of you, quick."