lessly prosaic as Ambrose tilted his
hat a little more to one side.

"Guy Fawkes?" suggested David, having studied the matter solidly for
some minutes.

"No," said Pennie, "not Guy Fawkes--he's so common--we've had him heaps
of times. But I'll tell you what would be splendid; we'll make him a
martyr in Smithfield."

The boys looked doubtful, but Nancy clapped her hands.

"That's capital," she said.

"You know," continued Pennie for the general information, "they burned
them."

"Alive?" inquired Ambrose eagerly.

"Yes."

"How jolly!" murmured David.

"Jolly! jolly! jolly!" repeated Dickie, jumping up and down in the snow.

"Why were they burned?" asked Ambrose, who was never tired of asking
questions, and liked to get to the bottom of a matter if possible.

"_Why_, I am not quite sure," answered Pennie cautiously, "because I've
only just got to it; but I _think_ it was something about the Bible.
I'll ask Miss Grey."

"Oh, never mind all that," interrupted the practical Nancy impatiently;
"we'll make a splendid bonfire all round him and watch him melt. Come
and get the wood."

"And we'll call him `a distinguished martyr,'" added Pennie as she moved
slowly away, "because I can't remember any of their real names."

Pennie was never satisfied to leave things as they were; she liked to
adorn them with fancies and make up stories about them, and her busy
little mind was always ready to set to work on the smallest event of the
children's lives. Nothing was too common or familiar to have mysteries
and romance woven round it; and this was sometimes a most useful
faculty, for winter was not always kind enough to bring snow and ice
with him. Very often there was nothing but rain and fog and mud, and
then mother uttered those dreadful words:

"The children must not go out."

Then when lessons were over, and all the games exhausted, and it was
still too early for lights, the schoolroom became full of dark corners,
and the flickering fire cast mysterious shadows which changed the very
furniture into something dim and awful.

Then was Pennie's time--then, watching her hearers' upturned faces by
the uncertain light of the fire, she saw surprise or pity or horror on
them as her story proceeded, and, waxing warmer, she half believed it
true herself. And this made the tales very interesting and thrilling.
Yet once Pennie's talent had an unfortunate result, as you shall hear in
the next chapter.

CHAPTER TW