o of course you don't mind
him; but whenever I meet him with father I know just what he'll say.
`This is Miss Penelope, isn't it? and where's Ulysses?' and then he
laughs. I can't laugh, because I don't know what he means, and I do
feel so silly. Suppose he comes and says it before all the others!"

"I don't see that it matters if he does," replied Nancy. "You needn't
take any notice. It's the dean who's silly, not you."

"It's all very well for you," said Pennie with an impatient kick at the
bed-clothes; "you're not going. Oh! how I wish you were! It wouldn't
be half so bad."

"I should hate it," said Nancy decidedly; "but," she added, with an
attempt at comfort, "there'll be some things you like after all.
There'll be the Cathedral and the College, and old Nurse, and oh!
Pennie, have you thought what a chance it'll be to hear more about
Kettles?"

But Pennie was too cast-down to take a cheerful view of anything.

"I don't suppose I shall hear anything about her," she said. "How
should I?"

"Perhaps you'll see her at the College again," said Nancy, "or perhaps
Miss Unity will know about her, or perhaps the dean goes to see her
father and mother."

"That I'm sure he doesn't," said Pennie with conviction. "Why, I don't
suppose he even knows where Anchoranopally is."

"Father goes to see all the people in Easney," said Nancy, "so why
shouldn't Dr Merridew go to see Kettles?"

"I don't know why he shouldn't," said Pennie, "but I'm quite sure he
doesn't. At any rate I'm not going to ask him anything. I hope I
sha'n't see him at all. Oh, why should people learn dancing? What good
can it be?"

Nancy's muttered reply showed that she was very nearly asleep, so for
that night there was no further conversation about Pennie's dancing, but
it was by no means altogether given up. On the contrary it was a very
favourite topic with all the children, for it seemed to have added to
their eldest sister's dignity to be singled out as the only one to join
the class at Nearminster.

"Why isn't Nancy to go too?" asked Ambrose one afternoon as he carefully
put the last touches to a picture he was drawing for Dickie; it was a
fancy portrait of Pennie learning to dance, with her dress held out very
wide, and an immense toe pointed in the air. The children were all in
the school-room engaged in various ways, for it was a wet afternoon;
even Dickie, having grown tired of the nursery, had insisted on coming
down until