the wagonette really appeared,
she could hardly contain herself for joy, and was obliged to hop about
excitedly. She was so glad to see them. There was mother, and there
was Nancy, dear old Nancy, in the black plush bonnet, which was now a
far more pleasant object to Pennie than the smart blue one she had
lately envied. Now the carriage was stopping, and Nancy was lowering
one stout determined leg to the step, clutching mother's umbrella and a
doll in her arms. Pennie stayed no longer, but rushed down-stairs into
the hall and opened the door. It might have been a separation of years,
instead of three days, from the warmth of her welcome, and Nancy said
presently with her usual blunt directness:

"What makes you so glad to see us?"

Pennie could not explain why it was, but she felt as if she had never
really been at home during Ethelwyn's visit to Easney, and was now going
back again--the real old Pennie once more. So she only hugged her
sister for reply, and both the little girls went and sat in the
window-seat together, while their mother and Miss Unity were talking.

But soon Nancy's observant glance, roving round the room, fell on the
empty space beside the clock.

"Why!" she said in a loud voice of surprise, "where's the mandarin?"
For she was very fond of the funny little image, and always expected to
see him wag his head when she went to Nearminster.

Everyone heard the question, and for a minute no one answered. Then
Miss Unity said gravely:

"There has been an accident, Nancy. The mandarin is broken. I fear you
will never see him nod his head again."

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Nancy. "Who did it?" Then turning to her
sister with an alarmed face, "Was it you?"

"I _hope_ not," said Mrs Hawthorn, leaning forward and looking
earnestly at Pennie.

In fact everyone was looking at her just then--Miss Unity with sorrow,
Mrs Hawthorn with anxiety, and Nancy with fear. How delightful it was
to be able at last to stand straight up, and answer triumphantly with a
clear conscience, "No!"

At that little word everyone looked relieved except Miss Unity, and her
face was graver than before as she said:

"Then, Pennie, why didn't you say so?"

"You never asked me," said Pennie proudly.

Miss Unity's frown relaxed a little; she bethought herself that she
really never had asked the child; she had taken it for granted, judging
only by guilty looks.

"If it was not you, Pennie," she said gently, "wh