terribly alarmed,
then very angry; it made one feel so small to be screamed at in that way.

"I--I didn't know--how could I?" she said crossly. "Is it a broken
chair?" What she longed to say was, "Why do you keep it there if it is so
unsafe?" but she felt that would be rude. "I am very sorry," she added,
forcing herself to be polite. "Is it a very old chair?"

"Yes, very old. It was made for my great-great-grandmother, when she was
a little girl, and I value it exceedingly. Unfortunately the last two or
three years worms have got into the wood, and have eaten it so it is quite
crumbling away."

"But can't you do anything for it?" asked Penelope, her vexation swallowed
up in pity for the chair. She was thinking that if she had valued it so
much she would have taken better care of it.

But Miss Row had returned to her letter again. When she had done she rose
and rang the bell. "You can take some milk and cake before you go, can't
you?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so, thank you," said Penelope modestly. "But I left Guard
outside. Will he stay, do you think?"

"Oh yes, he is used to waiting here."

Cook came in presently with a tray, on which was a large jug of milk, some
glasses, and a plate of cakes of various kinds. Penelope thought they
looked beautiful, so beautiful that she longed to take some back to the
others. She knew exactly how thoroughly they would enjoy them; but, of
course, no sign of what she was thinking escaped her.

She was wondering which of all them she might take for herself, when Miss
Row took up the plate. "I think you will find that very nice," pointing
to a piece of uninteresting-looking shortbread, "or that," pointing to a
slice of ginger-cake. "They would be less likely than the others to
disagree with you."

Penelope longed to say that nothing disagreed with her, but she did not
like to, and helped herself with the best grace she could to the
shortbread.

Miss Row continued arranging her flowers, sipping a glass of milk
meanwhile, and eating one after another of the fascinating little sugared
cakes Penelope was eyeing so wistfully, while she nibbled at her thick
piece of shortbread, unable to get a real bite. There really was no
satisfaction about that shortbread. It was so hard as to be unbiteable,
and so crumbly it scattered all over the floor; while with one hand
occupied holding the glass of milk, and the other the cake, she could not
pick up the crumbs, or break t