her an annual visit of two or three days,
taking each of the four elder children with them in turn. It was an
occasion much anticipated by the latter, but more for the honour of the
thing than from any actual pleasure connected with it, for Miss Unity
was rather a stiff old lady, and particular in her notions as to their
proper behaviour. She was fond of saying, "In _my_ time young people
did so and so," and of noticing any little failure in politeness, or
even any personal defect. She was a rich old lady, and lived in a great
square house just inside the Cathedral Close; it was sombrely furnished,
and full of dark old portraits, and rare china bowls and knick-knacks,
which last Miss Unity thought a great deal of, and dusted carefully with
her own hands. Amongst the many injunctions impressed upon the
children, they were told never to touch the china, and there were indeed
so many pitfalls to be avoided, that the visit was not by any means an
unmixed pleasure to Mrs Hawthorn. The children themselves, however,
though they missed the freedom of their home, and were a little afraid
of the upright Miss Unity, managed to extract enjoyment from it, and
always looked enviously upon the one of their number whose turn it was
to go to Nearminster.

And now the time had come round again, and it was David's turn to go,
but there was one drawback to his pleasure, because he must leave the
pig. Who could say that some careless hand might not leave the door of
the sty open or insecurely fastened during his absence? Then Antony's
fate would be certain, for Andrew was only too eager to carry out the
vicar's sentence of banishment, and was on the watch for the least
excuse to hurry the pig back to the farm.

After turning it over in his mind, David came to the conclusion that he
could best ensure Antony's safety by placing him under someone's special
care, and he chose Nancy for this important office.

"You _will_ take care of him, won't you?" he said, drawing up very close
to her and fixing earnest eyes upon her face, "and see that his gate is
always fastened."

Nancy was deeply engaged in painting a picture in the _Pilgrim's
Progress_; she paused a moment to survey the effect of Apollyon in
delicate sea-green, and said rather absently:

"Of course I will. And so will Ambrose and so will Pennie."

"No, but I want you partickerlerlery to do it," said David, bungling
dreadfully over the long word in his anxiety--"you _more_