Angela laid her hand again on Pen's arm. "Tell me your name," she said. "Pen, Penelope." "Penelope, what a grand old name. Have you got that wonderful perseverance that the real Penelope had? Will you be as faithful as she was?" But Pen did not know the story of the real Penelope, nor did she ask. Angela's hand seemed to draw her in some marvellous way. "Look at me," said Angela very gravely. "I must go in a few minutes. I wonder why I came to you instead of going straight to the front door. Your servant would have sent me away. But as I drew up my ponies at the front entrance, I saw a girl in the garden, and I thought I could bear this visit to the old place best if I came across the garden and spoke to the girl. And do you know, what is more, I hoped the girl would be you?" "Did you?" said Pen, her black eyes dancing with a look of intense pleasure. "I did, for you have such an honest face." "No, no; if you knew you wouldn't say that. You wouldn't speak to me. Angels would have nothing to do with me; but I can't help it--oh, why did you come?" "Tell me, dear; tell me." Pen struggled and struggled. Give herself away to this girl, to Angela St Just, whom all the neighbourhood worshipped from afar; tell this girl what she had done? She could not! But just as little as though Angela were a real angel could Pen withstand the matchless sympathy which Angela could throw into her voice, with which she could fill her eyes, with which she could wrap the sore heart of the puzzled little sufferer. "It was Jim," said Pen at last in a stricken voice. "Jim--he's my brother; he's not a bit like others. Jim has thoughts, you know, _thoughts_, and he is splendid, and full of honour. He said he would help me out. He promised faithfully, but he went away, he went to a place called The Chase, to some people of the name of Holroyd. He went quite suddenly. I had a talk with him one evening, and I told him; and he said there was only one thing to do, and he'd put it right, and be with me when I did it. But he's away. Oh dear, oh dear!" "Was the thing you had to do very difficult?" "Awfully. But oh, Angela, you don't know." It never occurred to Pen to call this fascinating visitor by any other name. "I am sure I can partly guess; it is exceedingly difficult for any one to own himself or herself in the wrong, and we all do wrong at times. Your brother must be a very nice boy." "Oh, he's grand, only I don't know why he forsook me." "Tell me more. I think I must have been guided to go down the garden path and have a talk with you." "But you will never speak to me again." "Does that really matter, Penelope? The one thing for you to do is to put wrong right." "I will tell you more," said Penelope suddenly. "You won't always be in the house to stare at me as Clay would do, and as Mabel and Annie would do, thinking that perhaps I'd do it again, and always taunting me with it. Oh, no, you won't be there."