ing out her eyes with red-hot
gauffering-irons, but this was overruled, and Jemima's eyes, pale blue
and quite expressionless, continued to stare placidly on the stake,
gibbet, or block, as the case might be.

It was a relief to Pennie just now to cuff and scold Jemima, and to pet
the Lady Dulcibella, who was a wax doll with a lovely pink and white
complexion, and real golden hair and eyelashes. She had everything
befitting a doll of her station and appearance--a comfortable bed with
white curtains, an arm-chair with a chintz cushion, private brushes and
combs, and an elegant travelling trunk. Her life altogether was a
contrast to Jemima's, who never went to bed at all, and had no
possessions except one ragged old red dress; nevertheless, it is
possible that Dulcibella with all her elegance would have been the more
easily spared of the two.

Nancy soon joined Pennie, and the little girls became so absorbed in
their play that they were still busy when tea-time came; they hurried
down-stairs to the schoolroom, for Miss Grey was particular about
punctuality, and found that David and Ambrose were already seated, each
with his own special mug at his side; mother was in the room too,
talking to Miss Grey about an open letter which she held in her hand.

Mrs Hawthorn always paid the children a visit at schoolroom tea, and
they generally had something wonderful to tell her saved up for this
occasion--things which had occurred during their walk, or perhaps
exciting details about the various pet animals. Sometimes she in her
turn had news for them, and when Pennie saw the open letter she changed
her intention of saying that the bonnets had come home, and waited
quietly. Perhaps mother had something interesting to tell.

Pennie was right, for Mrs Hawthorn presently made an announcement of
such a startling character that the new bonnets sank at once into
insignificance.

"Children," she said, "a little girl is coming to stay with you."

Now such a thing had never happened before, and it was so astonishing
that they all stared at their mother in silence with half-uplifted mugs,
and slices of bread and butter in their hands. Then all at once they
began to pour forth a torrent of questions:-- What is she like? Where
does she live? How old is she? What is her name?

Mrs Hawthorn held up her hand.

"One at a time," she said. "If you will be quiet you shall hear all
about it. This little girl lives in London. Her moth