"You'll miss your train, Miss," said the coachman. "So we will. Clara, do get in!" called out Mabel. "Here you are, Annie, we are both waiting for you." Clara jumped into the waggonette; the door was slammed to, the delicious fruit lay in a basket on the seat, and the horses started forward. They went down the avenue at a spanking pace. Pen was watching them from behind the house. She gave one glad cry, a cry almost of ecstasy, and then she burst into tears. "Oh, I'm glad and yet I'm sorry," she said. "Both glad and sorry! both glad and sorry!" Mrs Richardson called and called in vain for Pen; there was no sign of her darling young lady. What in the world had become of her? But Pen was determined to stay out. She had got to make up her mind. There was just a vague hope within her that perhaps Jim might yet return. Perhaps he was coming back in person; he was answering her letter in that best of all ways. Still, it was scarcely likely, for he must know that by Saturday morning his father would have discovered the missing sovereign. There was Betty, too. Pen had scarcely given Betty a thought. She was a very common, rather untidy little girl. She had never in the least attracted Pen; but she hardly thought of any one else that day. And yet, after a fashion, she quite envied Betty, for Betty at least was innocent. "She hasn't my guilty conscience," thought Pen. "Oh dear, oh dear, what is to become of me?" By-and-by Pen heard the sound of crying. It came nearer and nearer. A girl with her apron over her head was coming down the shady path where Pen herself was sitting. Pen started to her feet. That was Betty; she could not meet Betty, she would not see her for all the world. But Betty had caught sight of Pen. She ran up to her, removed her apron, and said: "Oh, Miss Pen, couldn't you save me? Won't you speak for me to Mr Carter? I ain't done it, Miss. I ain't done it. I wouldn't touch what don't belong to me. He says I'm the only one that _could_ ha' done it, and if I don't confess I'm to go, but if I confess he'll forgive me. But I ain't done it, and I'll have to go, and he won't give me a character, and mother--mother, she'll never forgive me. She'll believe as I done it." "But--but--" said Pen, bringing out her words with difficulty, "didn't you take it?" "Oh, no, Miss Pen. Oh, that you should think that! All my people are as honest as honest can be. I never took it, I never knew anything about that purse, and I never, never opened a drawer in my master's room, not since I came to the house. But there, I see you don't believe me." Betty did not waste any more time with Pen. She walked on, her sobs grew louder, and then fainter; she was perfectly distracted, she did not know what to do with herself. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. NURSE COMFORTER.