friend.
"Honora," said Pauline, "may we sit one at each side of Penelope andtell her who every one is and all about everything? Then she'll feelquite one of us and be--oh--so happy!"
"That's an excellent idea, Pauline," said Honora. "Here, Penelope, comeup to this end of the table, and I'll jog the children's memories ifthey forget any one."
So Penelope enjoyed her first breakfast at Castle Beverley, and couldnot help looking at Honora with a wonderful, new sensation of love inher eyes. Honora, whose dazzling fairness and stately young figure hadmade her appear at first sight such an admirable representative of thefair Helen of the past, had never looked more beautiful than thismorning.
She wore a dress of the palest shade of blue cambric and had a greatbunch of forget-me-nots in her belt. Her face was like sunshine itself,and her wealth of golden hair was quite marvellous in its fairness. Herplacid blue eyes seemed to be as mirrors in which one could see into hersteadfast and noble mind. All her thoughts were those of kindness, andshe was absolutely unselfish. In fact, as one girl said: "Honora isselfless: she almost forgets that she exists, so little does she thinkof herself in her thought for others."
Now, Honora's one desire was to make Penelope happy, and Peneloperesponded to the sympathetic manner and kindly words as a poor littlesickly flower will revel in sunshine. But Pauline presently spoke inthat rather shrill little voice of hers:
"We _are_ happy here: even Nellie's better, aren't you, Nellie?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Nellie. She looked across the table atPauline, and gave half a sigh and half a smile.
"Of course you are happy, Nellie," said Honora. "You're not thinkingany more about that bracelet, are you?"
"I do wish I could get it back," said Nellie, "but, all the same I amhappy."
"But please, Penelope, tell us about your sister," said Pauline. "Oh,do you know--"
"Yes--_do_ tell us that!" interrupted Nellie.
"Why, Fred saw her yesterday at Marshlands-on-the-Sea," continuedPauline. "She's quite close to us--isn't it fun? Fred came back quiteinterested in her--he thinks her so very pretty!"
"Whom do I think pretty, Miss?" called out Fred from a little way downthe table. "No taking of my name in vain--if you please."
"You know, Fred," said Pauline, in her somewhat solemn little voice,"that you think dear Penelope's sister sweetly pretty."
"I should think so, indeed!" said Fred, "and, by the way, she is atMarshlands. She had three of the funniest little girls out walking withher yesterday that you ever saw in your life. Did you know she wasgoing to be at Marshlands, Miss Carlton?"
"Yes," said Penelope, feeling not quite so happy as she did a fewminutes ago.
"We'll ask her up here some day to have a good time with us, dear, ifyou like," said Honora.
"Thank you," replied Penelope, but without enthusiasm.
"I spoke to her yesterday," said Fred. "She really did look awfullynice; only they were the rummest little coves you ever saw in all yourlife--the children who are there."
"They are her pupils; they're the daughters of a clergyman," saidPenelope.
"I don't care whose daughters they are, but they go about with yoursister, and they _do_ look so funny. I told her you were coming and shegave me her address. Would you like to go in to see her this morning?"Penelope trembled.
"Not this morning, please," she said.
She felt herself turning pale. She felt she must have one happy daybefore she began to meet Brenda. She had a curious feeling that whenthat event took place, her peace, and delight in her presentsurroundings would somehow be clouded. Brenda was so much cleverer thanshe was, so gay, so determined, so strange in many ways. Oh, no; shewould not go to see her to-day.
"If you like," said Honora, observing Penelope's confusion, and ratherwondering at it, "I could send a note to your sister to come upto-morrow to spend the day here. We're not going to do anything specialto-morrow, and mother always allows me to ask any friends we like to theCastle. We have heaps of croquet courts and tennis courts, and thelittle girls could come with her, for of course she couldn't leave thembehind. How would that do, Penelope? Would that please you?"
"I don't know," said Penelope. Then she said, somewhat awkwardly:
"Oh, yes--yes--if you like--"
Honora had a curious sensation of some surprise at Penelope's manner;but it quickly passed. She accounted for it by saying to herself thather friend was tired and of course must greatly long to see her onlysister.
"She's not absolutely and altogether to my taste," thought Honora, "butI am just determined to give her the best of times, and we can have thesister up and the funny children for at least one day. What's the goodof having a big place if one doesn't get people to enjoy it?"
It was just then that Nellie said:
"I do wish, Penelope, you had not done one thing."
"What is that?" asked Penelope, who had hardly got over the shock ofhaving Brenda so soon with her.
"Why did you bring Mademoiselle to Marshlands? We don't care forMademoiselle, do we, Pauline?"
"No, indeed," said Pauline, "and she took my hand yesterday and clutchedit so tight and wouldn't let it go before I pulled two or three times,and oh! I'm quite positive sure that she'll find us out, and I wish shewouldn't!"
"Frankly, I wish she wouldn't too," said Honora, "but I do not see," sheadded, "why Penelope should be disturbed on that account--it isn't herfault."
"No, indeed it isn't," said Penelope, "and I wish with all my heart shehadn't come with me to Marshlands-on-the-Sea."
When breakfast was over, all the young people streamed out into thegardens with the exception of Honora and Penelope.
"One minute, Penelope dear," said Honora. "Just write a little line toyour sister and I will enclose one, in mother's name and mine, invitingher to come up with the children to-morrow. Here are writingmaterials--you needn't take a minute."
Penelope sat down and wrote a few words to Brenda. For the life of her,she could not make these words cordial. She hardly knew her ownsensations. Was she addressing the same Brenda whom she had worshippedand suffered for and loved so frantically when she was a little girl?Was it jealousy that was stealing into her heart? What could be hermotives in wishing to keep this sister from the nice boys and girls whomade Castle Beverley so charming? Or was she--was she so mean--sosmall--as to be ashamed of Brenda? No, no--it could not be that, andyet--and yet--it was that: she was ashamed of Brenda! The children shewas now with belonged to the best of their kind. Penelope had livedwith people of the better class for several months now and wasdiscerning enough to perceive the difference between gold and tinsel.Oh, was Brenda tinsel; Brenda--her only sister? Penelope could havesobbed, but she must hide all emotion.
Her letter was finished. She knew how eagerly Brenda would accept andhow cleverly she would get herself invited to the Castle again, andagain, and again. Honora's cordial little note was slipped into thesame envelope. Penelope had to furnish the address, and, an hour later,Fred and his brothers, who were going to ride to Marshlands in order tobathe and to spend some hours afterwards on the beach, arranged toconvey the invitation to Brenda which poor Penelope so dreaded.
"Now we have that off our minds," said Honora, "and can have a real goodtime. What would you like to do, Penelope? You know you must makeyourself absolutely and completely at home. You are one of us. Everygirl who comes here by mother's invitation is for the time mother's owndaughter and looked upon as such by her. She is also father's owndaughter and, I can tell you, he treats her as such, and the boys areexactly in the same position. We're all brothers and sisters here, andwe love each other, every one of us."
"But would you love a girl, whatever happened?" asked Penelope, all of asudden.
"Oh, I don't know what you mean--whatever happened--what could happen?"
"Nothing--of course--nothing; only I wonder, Honora. I never seemed toknow you at all when I was at school. I wonder if you could lo
ve a girllike me."
"I love you already, dear," said Honora. "And now, please, don't bemorbid; just let's be jolly and laugh and joke; every one can do justwhat every one likes--this is Liberty Hall, of course. It's a home ofdelight, of course. It's the home of `Byegone dull Care';--oh, it's thenicest place in all the world, and I want you to remember it as long asyou live. I am so glad mother allowed me to ask you! Now then, do seethose youngsters, Pauline and