Mrs Hathaway looked really interested, and Penny began to think her rather a nice old lady after all. After she and her mother left the house she walked along for some time in deep thought. "What are you considering, Penny?" asked Mrs Hawthorne at last. "I think," said Penny very deliberately, "that as there's so little in the charity-box I should like to work for Mrs Dicks' children." Mrs Hawthorne knew what an effort this resolve had cost her little daughter. "Well, dear Penny," she answered, "if you do that I think you will be giving her a more valuable gift than the charity-box full of money." "Why?" said Penny. "Because you will give her what costs you most. It is quite easy to put your hand in your box and take out some money; but now, besides the things you make for her, you will have to give her your patience and your perseverance, and also part of the time you generally spend on your beloved books." "So I shall!" sighed Penny. But she kept her resolve and did work for Mrs Dicks. Very unpleasant she found it at first, particularly when there was some interesting new story waiting to be read. Gradually, however, there came a time when it did not seem quite so disagreeable and difficult, and she even began to feel a little pride in a neat row of stitches. The day on which she finished a set of tiny shirts for the baby Dicks was one of triumph to herself, and of congratulation from the whole household; Mrs Dicks herself was almost speechless with admiration at Miss Penny's needlework; indeed the finest embroideries, produced by the most skilful hand, could not have been more praised and appreciated. "Penny," said Mrs Hawthorne, "have you looked in the charity-box lately?" "Why, no, mother," answered she, "because I know there's only twopence three farthings in it." "Go and look," said her mother. And what do you think Penny found? The bright farthing was gone, and in its place there was a shining little half-sovereign. How did it come there? That I will leave you to guess. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 1. THE BLACK PIGS--A TRUE STORY. "I know what we must do--we must sell them at the market!" "Where?" "At Donnington." "We shall want the cart and horse." "Ask father." "No. _You_ ask him--you know I always stammer so when I ask." The speakers were two dark, straight-featured little boys of ten and twelve, and the above conversation was carried on in eager whispers, for they were not alone in the room. It was rather dark, for the lamp had not been lighted yet, but they could see the back of the vicar's head as he sat in his arm-chair by the fire, and they knew from the look of it that he was absorbed in thought; he had been reading earnestly as long as it was light enough, and scarcely knew that the boys were in the room. "_You_ ask," repeated Roger, the elder boy, "I always stammer so." Little Gabriel clasped his hands nervously, and his deep-set eyes gazed apprehensively at the back of his father's head.