After the mental storm of the day before, Pauline would never forget the peace of the day that followed. For Miss Tredgold, having punished, and the hours of punishment being over, said nothing further to signify her displeasure. She received Pauline kindly¹ when she appeared in the schoolroom. She took her hand and drew the little girl toward her. It was with a great effort that the poor girl could suppress the shriek² that nearly rose to her lips as the unconscious Miss Tredgold touched her burnt arm.  
“We will forget about yesterday, Pauline,” said her aunt. “We will go back to work this morning just as though there never had been any yesterday. Do you understand?”
 
“I think so,” said Pauline.
 
“Do you happen to know your lessons?”
 
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
 
“Well, my dear, as this is practically your first transgression³, I am the last person to be over-hard. You can listen to your sisters this morning. At preparation to-day you will doubtless do your best. Now go to your seat.”
 
Pauline sat between Briar and Adelaide. Adelaide nestled up close to her, and Briar took the first opportunity to whisper:80
 
“I am so glad you are back again, dear old Pauline! We had a horrid⁴ time without you yesterday.”
 
“They none of them know what I did,” thought Pauline; “and, of course, I meant to tell them. Not Aunt Sophia, but the girls. Yes, I meant to confide⁵ in the girls; but the atmosphere of peace is so nice that I do not care to disturb it. I will put off saying anything for the present. It certainly is delightful⁶ to feel good again.”
 
Lessons went on tranquilly⁷. The girls had a time of delightful rest afterwards in the garden, and immediately after early dinner there came a surprise. Miss Tredgold said:
 
“My dear girls, there are several things you ought to learn besides mere⁸ book knowledge. I propose that you should be young country ladies whom no one will be ashamed to know. You must learn to dance properly, and to skate properly if there ever is any skating here. If not, we will go abroad for the purpose. But while you are in the Forest I intend you to have riding lessons and also driving lessons. A wagonette will be here at two o’clock, and we will all go for a long and delightful drive through the Forest. I am going to some stables about six or seven miles away, where I hear I can purchase some good horses and also some Forest ponies⁹. Don’t look so excited, dears. I should be ashamed of any nieces of mine brought up in the New Forest of England who did not know how to manage horses.”
 
“Oh, she really is a darling!” said Verena. “I never did for a single moment suppose that we should have had the chance of learning to drive.”
 
“And to ride,” said Pauline.
 
She began to skip about the lawn. Her spirits, naturally very high, returned.
 
“I feel quite happy again,” she said.
 
“Why, of course you are happy,” said Verena; “but you must never get into Punishment Land again as long as you live, Paulie, for I wouldn’t go through another day like yesterday for anything.”
 
The wagonette arrived all in good time. It drew up at the front door, and Mr. Dale, attracted by the sound of wheels, rose from his accustomed seat in his musty, fusty study, and looked out of the window. The window was so dusty and dirty that he could not see anything plainly; but, true to his determination, he would not open it. A breeze might come in and disturb some of his papers. He was busy with an enthralling¹¹ portion of his work just then; nevertheless, the smart wagonette and nicely harnessed horses, and the gay sound of young voices, attracted him.
 
“I could almost believe myself back in the days when I courted my dearly beloved Alice,” he whispered to himself. “I do sincerely trust that visitors are not beginning to arrive at The Dales; that would be the final straw.”81
 
The carriage, however, did not stop long at the front door. It was presently seen bowling¹² away down the avenue. Mr. Dale, who still stood and watched it, observed that it was quite packed with bright-looking young girls. Blue ribbons streamed on the breeze, and the girls laughed gaily¹³.
 
“I am glad those visitors are going,” thought the good man, who did not in the least recognize his own family. “A noisy, vulgar crowd they seemed. I hope my own girls will never become like that. Thank goodness they did not stay long! Sophia is a person of discernment; she knows that I can’t possibly receive incidental visitors at The Dales.”
 
He returned to his work and soon was lost to all external things.
 
Meanwhile the girls had a lovely and exciting drive. Aunt Sophia was in her most agreeable mood. The children themselves were quite unaccustomed to carriage exercise. It was a wonderful luxury to lean back on the softly cushioned seats and dash swiftly under the noble beech-trees and the giant oaks of the primeval forest. By-and-by they drove up to some white gates. Verena was desired to get out and open them. The carriage passed through. She remounted into her seat, and a few minutes later they all found themselves in a great cobble-stoned yard surrounded by stables and coach-houses. The melodious¹⁴ cry of a pack of fox-hounds filled the air. The girls were almost beside themselves with excitement. Presently a red-faced man appeared, and he and Miss Tredgold had a long and mysterious talk together. She got out of the wagonette and went with the man into the stables. Soon out of the stables there issued, led by two grooms¹⁵, as perfect a pair of Forest ponies as were ever seen. They were well groomed¹⁶ and in excellent order, and when they arched their necks and pawed the ground with their feet, Pauline uttered an irrepressible shout.
 
“Those ponies are coming to The Dale in a fortnight,” said Miss Tredgold. “Their names are Peas-blossom and Lavender.”
 
“I believe I’ll die if much more of this goes on,” gasped¹⁷ Briar. “I’m too happy. I can’t stand anything further.”
 
“Hush, Briar!” said Verena, almost giving her sister a shake in her excitement, and yet at the same time trying to appear calm.
 
“Now, my dear children, we will go home,” said their aunt. “The wagonette will come any day that I send for it, and Mr. Judson informs me he hopes by-and-by to have a pair of carriage horses that I may think it worth while to purchase.”
 
“Aren’t these good enough?” asked Verena, as they drove back to The Dales.
 
“They are very fair horses, but I don’t care to buy them. Judson knows just the sort I want. I am pleased with the 82ponies, however. They will give you all a great deal of amusement. To-morrow we must go to Southampton and order your habits.”
 
“I wonder I ever thought her cross and nasty and disagreeable,” thought Pauline. “I wonder I ever could hate her. I hope she’ll let me ride Peas-blossom. I liked his bright eyes so much. I never rode anything in my life, but I feel I could ride barebacked on Peas-blossom. I love him already. Oh, dear! I don’t hate Aunt Sophia now. On the contrary, I feel rather bad when I look at her. If she ever knows what I did yesterday, will she forgive me? I suppose I ought to tell her; but I can’t. It would get poor Nancy into trouble. Besides—I may as well be frank with myself—I should not have the courage.”
 
As soon as the girls got home Penelope ran up to Pauline.
 
“You stayed for a long time in the shrubbery yesterday, didn’t you, Pauline?” she asked.
 
“Yes,” said Pauline.
 
“You didn’t by any chance find Aunt Sophy’s thimble?”
 
“I! Why should I?”
 
Pauline felt herself turning red. Penelope fixed¹⁸ her exceedingly sharp eyes on her sister’s face.
 
“You did find it; you know you did. Where is it? Give it to me. I want my penny. Think of all the fun you are going to have. She doesn’t mean me to ride, ’cos I asked her. I must have my penny. Give me the thimble at once, Paulie.”
 
“I haven’t got it. Don’t talk nonsense, child. Let me go. Oh! you have hurt me.”
 
Pauline could not suppress a short scream, and the next minute she felt herself turning very faint and sick, for Penelope had laid her exceedingly hard little hand on Pauline’s burnt arm.
 
“What is it, Paulie? I know you are not well,” said Verena, running up.
 
“It is ’cos of her bad conscience,” said Penelope, turning away with a snort of indignation.
 
“Really,” said Verena, as Pauline leaned against her and tried hard to repress the shivers of pain that ran through her frame, “Penelope gets worse and worse. Only that I hate telling tales out of school, I should ask Aunt Sophia to send her back to the nursery for at least another year. But what is it, Paulie dear? You look quite ill.”
 
“I feel rather bad. I have hurt my arm. You must not ask me how, Renny. You must trust me. Oh dear! I must tell you what has happened, for you will have to help me. Oh, Renny, I am in such pain!”
 
Poor Pauline burst into a torrent¹⁹ of tears. Where was her happiness of an hour ago? Where were her rapturous thoughts of riding Peas-blossom through the Forest? Her arm hurt her terribly; she knew that Penelope was quite 83capable of making mischief²⁰, she was terrified about the thimble. Altogether her brief interval²¹ of sunshine was completely blotted²² out.
 
Verena, for her years, was a wonderfully wise girl. She had since her mother’s death been more or less a little mother to the younger children. It is true, she had looked after them in a somewhat rough-and-ready style; but nevertheless she was a sympathetic and affectionate girl, and they all clung to her. Now it seemed only natural that Pauline should lean on her and confide her troubles to her. Accordingly Verena led her sister to a rustic²³ seat and said:
 
“Sit down near me and tell me everything.”
 
“It is this,” said Pauline. “I have burned my arm badly, and Aunt Sophia must not know.”
 
“You have burnt your arm? How?”
 
“I would rather not tell.”
 
“But why should you conceal²⁴ it, Paulie?”
 
“I’d rather conceal it; please don’t ask me. All I want you to do is to ask me no questions, but to help me to get my arm well; the pain is almost past bearing. But, Renny, whatever happens, Aunt Sophia must not know.”
 
“You are fearfully mysterious,” said Verena, who looked much alarmed. “You used not to be like this, Paulie. You were always very open, and you and I shared every thought Well, come into the house. Of course, whatever happens, I will help you; but I think you ought to tell me the whole truth.&rdquo............