“Lord God!” exclaimed old Penelope, and sinking into the elbow-chair, hid her face in her toil-worn hands. And presently she spoke in voice harsh and broken, “There be nobody ... has kissed me ... since my dyin’ mother, long an’ long ago!” “My dear soul!” said my lady, and Sir John saw her eyes suddenly brim with tears. “My dear soul, there is a woman shall kiss away thy sorrows if she may.... For to-day, Penelope, thou hast found a friend and I a—a fairy godmother! Let me kiss thee again, godmother!” Slowly old Penelope raised her head to look into the face bowed above her. “Happen I be dreamin’,” she sighed, “an’ shall wake by an’ by—but, O child, it be good to dream—sometimes.” CHAPTER XXIX GIVETH SOME DESCRIPTIONS OF A TEA-DRINKING “’Tis most excellent tea!” quoth my lady. “I vow I have never drank better!” “Arl the way from Chaney, mam.” “And these beautiful dishes!” “Chaney, too!” nodded old Penelope proudly. “An’ look at my teapot! I means to tak’ it along wi’ me when they do turn me out, though ’twill be a bit ’ard to carry, I rackon. But ye see, mam, I——” “Nay, godmother, call me Rose.” “No, mam, it doan’t come easy to my tongue.” “I may call you Penelope, mayn’t I?” “For sure!” “And fairy godmother?” “Aye, though I be more witch than fairy, I rackon.” “Then, godmother Penelope, pray call me Rose.” “Rose, then!” she snapped. “I think,” said Sir John in his pleasant voice, “you have some message for me, Mrs. Penelope?” “Gimme time, young man, gimme time! I bean’t kissed an’ called a fairy every day, so gimme——” She paused suddenly and seemed to listen intently, “I rackon you’d best be goin’—both on ye!” “But why, pray?” demanded my lady. “Happen I’ll ha’ trouble here presently.” “Then, of course, I shall stay with you!” quoth my lady in her most determined manner, but glanced round sharply, as upon the back door of the cottage sounded three soft raps repeated three several times. “That will be Mr. Potter, I think,” said Sir John. “Shall I let him in?” “Since ye seem to know arl about it, young man, ye may.” Scarcely had Sir John loosed the bolts than, sure enough, Mr. Potter slid into the room and proceeded to lock and bolt and chain the door, further securing it with a stout iron bar that he reached from adjacent corner; thus busied, he spoke, albeit gasping a little with his late exertions. “They nigh ’ad me once, Pen ... but I slipped ’em ... t’other side the ... ’anging wood. But I’ve gotten an ’are for ye ... a praper big ’un as I took ... in Dering Park and ... by the Pize!” he exclaimed as, turning, he espied my lady. Mr. Potter was hardly himself, for his hat was gone, his clothes were torn and stained with the mud and green slime of damp hiding-places, while his unkempt hair clung in elf-locks about an unshaven face, grimed with dust and streaked with sweat; moreover, beneath one arm he carried a short, though very formidable bludgeon.