nd in your box and take out some money; but now, besides the
things you make for her, you will have to give her your patience and
your perseverance, and also part of the time you generally spend on your
beloved books."

"So I shall!" sighed Penny.

But she kept her resolve and did work for Mrs Dicks. Very unpleasant
she found it at first, particularly when there was some interesting new
story waiting to be read.

Gradually, however, there came a time when it did not seem quite so
disagreeable and difficult, and she even began to feel a little pride in
a neat row of stitches.

The day on which she finished a set of tiny shirts for the baby Dicks
was one of triumph to herself, and of congratulation from the whole
household; Mrs Dicks herself was almost speechless with admiration at
Miss Penny's needlework; indeed the finest embroideries, produced by the
most skilful hand, could not have been more praised and appreciated.

"Penny," said Mrs Hawthorne, "have you looked in the charity-box
lately?"

"Why, no, mother," answered she, "because I know there's only twopence
three farthings in it."

"Go and look," said her mother.

And what do you think Penny found? The bright farthing was gone, and in
its place there was a shining little half-sovereign. How did it come
there?

That I will leave you to guess.

STORY SIX, CHAPTER 1.

THE BLACK PIGS--A TRUE STORY.

"I know what we must do--we must sell them at the market!"

"Where?"

"At Donnington."

"We shall want the cart and horse."

"Ask father."

"No. _You_ ask him--you know I always stammer so when I ask."

The speakers were two dark, straight-featured little boys of ten and
twelve, and the above conversation was carried on in eager whispers, for
they were not alone in the room.

It was rather dark, for the lamp had not been lighted yet, but they
could see the back of the vicar's head as he sat in his arm-chair by the
fire, and they knew from the look of it that he was absorbed in thought;
he had been reading earnestly as long as it was light enough, and
scarcely knew that the boys were in the room.

"_You_ ask," repeated Roger, the elder boy, "I always stammer so."

Little Gabriel clasped his hands nervously, and his deep-set eyes gazed
apprehensively at the back of his father's head.

"I don't like to," he murmured.

"But you must," urged Roger eagerly; "think of the pigs."

Thus encouraged, Gabriel got up and walked across the room.