Pauline was certainly better, although she was not what she was before. In body she was to all appearance quite well. She ate heartily¹, took long walks, and slept soundly at night; but she was dull. She seldom laughed; she took little interest in anything. As to the sea, she had a positive horror of it. When she went out for walks she invariably chose inland directions. She liked to walk briskly over the great moors² which surround Easterhaze, and to sit there and think, though nobody knew what she was thinking about. Her face now and then looked pathetic, but on the whole it was indifferent. Miss Tredgold was much concerned. She made up her mind.  
“The seaside is doing the child no good,” she thought. “I will take her straight back home. She is certainly not herself; she got a much greater shock than we knew of or had any idea of. When she gets home the sight of the other children and the old place will rouse her. She is not consumptive at the present moment. That is one thing to be thankful for. I shall take her to London for the winter. If going back to The Dales does not arouse her, she must go somewhere else, for roused she certainly must be.”
 
Miss Tredgold, having made up her mind, spoke³ to Verena.
 
“We are going home to-morrow, Verena,” she said.
 
“And a very good thing,” answered the young girl.
 
“Do you really think so?”
 
“I do, Aunt Sophy. Pauline has got all she can get out of the sea at present. She does not love the sea; she is afraid of it. She may be better when she is home.”
 
“And yet she is well,” said Miss Tredgold. “The doctor pronounces her in perfect health.”
 
“In body she is certainly well,” said Verena.
 
“Oh, then, you have observed it?”
 
“Yes, I have,” replied Verena slowly. “There is some part of her stunned⁴. I can’t make out myself what ails⁵ her, but there is undoubtedly⁶ one part of her stunned.”
 
“We will take her home,” said Miss Tredgold.
 
The good lady was a person of very direct action and keen resource. She had whisked Pauline and Verena off to the sea almost at a moment’s notice, and quite as quickly she brought them back. They were all glad to go. Even Pen was pleased. Pen looked very still and solemn and contented⁷ during these days. She sat close to Pauline and looked into her eyes over and over again; and Pauline never 176resented her glance, and seemed to be more pleased to be with Penelope than with anybody else.
 
The nice landau which Miss Tredgold had purchased met the travellers at Lyndhurst Road, and the first piece of news which Briar, who had come to meet them, announced was that the ponies⁸ had arrived.
 
“Peas-blossom and Lavender are so sweet!” she said. “They came yesterday. We are quite longing⁹ to ride them. As to Peas-blossom, he is quite the dearest pony¹⁰ I ever looked at in my life.”
 
“Peas-blossom will be Pauline’s special pony,” said Miss Tredgold suddenly. “Do you happen to know if the sidesaddles have arrived?”
 
“Oh, yes, they have; and the habits, too,” said Briar. “It is delicious—delicious!”
 
“Then, Pauline, my dear, you shall have a ride to-morrow morning.”
 
Pauline scarcely replied. She did not negative the idea of the ride, but neither did she accept it with any enthusiasm.
 
There was a wild moment when the entire family were reassembled. All the girls surrounded Pauline, and kissed her and hugged her as though she had come back from the dead.
 
“You quite forget,” said Penelope, “that I was nearly drownded, too. I was very nearly shutting up of my eyes, and closing of my lips, and stretching myself out and lying drownded and still on the top of the waves. I was in as big a danger as Pauline, every bit.”
 
“But you didn’t get ill afterwards, as Paulie did,” said the other girls.
 
They kissed Pen, for, being their sister, they had to love her after a fashion; but their real adoration¹¹ and deepest sympathy were centred round Pauline.
 
Meanwhile Pen, who never cared to find herself neglected, ran off to discover nurse.
 
“Well,” she said when she saw that worthy¹², “here I am. I’m not pale now. I am rosy¹³. The seaside suits me. The salty waves and the sands, they all agrees with me. How are you, nursey?”
 
“Very well,” replied nurse, “and glad to see you again.”
 
“And how is Marjorie? Kiss me, Marjorie.”
 
She snatched up her little sister somewhat roughly.
 
“Don’t make the darling cry,” said nurse.
 
“All right,” replied Pen. “Sit down, baby; I have no time to ’tend you. Nursey, when I was at the sea I was a very ’portant person.”
 
“Were you indeed. Miss Pen? But you always think yourself that. And how is Miss Pauline?”
 
“Paulie?” said Penelope. “She’s bad.”
 
“Bad!” echoed nurse.177
 
“Yes, all-round bad,” said Penelope.
 
As she spoke she formed her mouth into a round O, and looked with big eyes at nurse.
 
“The seaside didn’t agree with her,” said Pen. “Nor does the fuss, nor the petting, nor the nice food, nor anything else of that sort. The only thing that agrees with Paulie is me. She likes to have me with her, and I understand her. But never mind about Paulie now. I want to ask you a question. Am I the sort of little girl that lions would crunch¹⁴ up?”
 
“I never!” cried nurse. “You are the queerest child!”
 
“But am I, nursey? Speak.”
 
“I suppose so, Miss Pen.”
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