"You don't mean to say that you told her about Pauline?"
"No," answered Patty in a voice of scorn. "I am not quite as bad as that. But she was speaking about Aunt Sophy and how wild she used to be, and she compared her to Paulie, and said that Aunt Sophy never did anything mean or underhand, and that Paulie never did either. I felt as if I could jump, for we know, Briar, what Paulie has done."
"Yes, we know," answered Briar. "And you and I have done very wrong, too. But there is no help for it now, Patty. We can't go back."
"It certainly does seem awful to think of growing up wicked," said Patty. "I don't like it."
"Don't let's talk about it," said Briar. "We'll have to suffer some time, but perhaps not yet. Do you know that the apples are getting ripe, and John wants us to help him to pick them? Oh! and the mulberry-tree, too, is a mass of fruit. What do you say to climbing the apple-trees and shaking down the apples?"
Without more words the little girls ran off to the orchard, and nurse's remarks with regard to the difference between lies and tarradiddles were forgotten for the time being.
The days went on, but Pen did not forget. There came a morning when, a letter having arrived from Aunt Sophy saying that Pauline was much better--in fact, quite herself again--and that she and both the girls would be home in about a week, the little girl was rendered desperate.
"I has no time to lose," she said to herself. "I am 'termined to go; I am going some fashion or t'other."
On this occasion she took a bolder step than she had yet attempted. She resolved to walk alone the entire distance between The Dales and The Hollies, which was about three miles. Pen was the sort of child who was never troubled by physical fear. She also knew the Forest very well. She had but to slip away; none of her sisters would miss her. Or if nurse wondered where she was, she would conclude that Pen was keeping her elder sisters company. If the girls wondered, they would think she was with nurse. Altogether the feat was easy of accomplishment, and the naughty child determined to go. She started off an hour after breakfast, opened the wicket-gate, let herself out, and began to walk quickly. These were the days of early autumn, when the Forest was looking its best; the trees were beginning to put on their regal dresses of crimson and brown and gold. Already the rich red leaves were dropping to the ground. The bracken was withering to a golden brown, and the heather was a deep purple. Everywhere, too, little bluebells sprang up, looking as if they were making fairy music. There were squirrels, too, darting from bough to bough of the beech-trees; and rabbits innumerable, with white-tipped tails, disappearing into their various holes. A walk in the Forest on this special day was the sort to fascinate some children, but Pen cared for none of these things. Her way lay straight before her; her object was never for a moment forgotten. She meant to reach the sea by some means or other.
