t. She had once
thought, she said, of sending the children to Miss Cannon's class, but
the distance was the difficulty, and that would remain in this case.

Then Miss Unity made her last effort.

"As to that," she said breathlessly, "I thought of asking you to allow
me to give Pennie some lessons, and I should be pleased for her to sleep
at my house after the class every week, if you had no objection."

But Mrs Hawthorne still hesitated. It was most kind of Miss Unity, but
she feared it would trouble her to have Pennie so often; yet she did not
like to refuse such a very kind offer, and no doubt the lessons would be
good for the child. Finally, after a great many pros and cons, it was
settled that the vicar's opinion should be asked, and then Miss Unity
knew that Mary had decided the matter in her own mind. Her offer was to
be accepted. So she had done her best for her god-daughter, and if it
were not successful her conscience would at least be at rest.

Perhaps no one realised what an effort it had been to her, and what real
self-sacrifice such an offer involved. She was fond of Pennie, but to
have the regularity of her household disturbed by the presence of a
child every week--the bustle of arrival and departure, the risk of
broken china, the possible upsetting of Betty's temper; all this was
torture to look forward to, and when she went to bed she felt that she
was paying dearly for a quiet conscience.

But if it was a trial to Miss Unity it was none the less so to Pennie,
who looked upon herself as a sort of victim chosen out of the family to
be sacrificed. She was to go alone to the deanery without Nancy, and
learn to dance with the Merridews, who were almost strangers to her. It
was a most dreadful idea. Quite enough to spoil Nearminster, or the
most pleasant place on earth. However, mother said so, and it must be
done; but from the moment she heard of it Pennie did not cease to groan
and lament.

"I don't even know their names," she began one night, after she and
Nancy were tucked up side by side in bed.

"Why, you know there's one called Ethel," replied Nancy, "because
whenever Mrs Merridew comes here she asks how old you are, and says,
`Just the age of my Ethel!'"

"I don't think I like the look of any of them much," continued Pennie
mournfully, "and--oh, Nancy, I do hope I sha'n't see the dean!"

"Why?" asked Nancy. "I don't mind him a bit."

"He never makes jokes at you," said Pennie, "s