CHAPTER IV.
And merrily hent the stile-a;
A merry heart goes all the way,
Your sad tires in a mile-a."
We are waiting in the schoolroom for mother, who has gone with a serene front, but (we believe) trembling knees, to ask her lord and master's gracious consent to our setting out for Pimpernel Fair. She has been absent a quarter of an hour, which we are inclined to think a hopeful sign, as his "Noes" are usually short and sharp, and for him to condescend to argue a matter promises well. Here she comes! We tumble one over the other to the door, and fling it wide. No need to ask her; she has "Yes!" written all over her in big capitals. As she sits down we swarm round her until she looks like something good encompassed by a hive of buzzing, noisy bees.
"You are coming with us, eh, mother?" I ask eagerly.
"No, dear, I think not; there is baby, you know."
"We are not going to have all the fry at our heels, I hope?" asks Jack, with some anxiety.
The two nurses are going with four of them, and Miss Amberley will take you elder ones."
"Hurrah!" cries Jack; "if there's anything I hate it's going out in dozens. And what time are we to be back?"
"Six o'clock. And don't make yourselves ill with gingerbreads, dears."
"Ill!" we all echo in chorus; "who could get ill on nothing?"
"We have not a rap, mother," I put in on my own account. "There was a shilling somewhere among us last week, but it was so valuable, and we took so much care of it, that somehow it got lost. One of us hid it away, and forgot where we put it."
