"I don't know why it is," sighed Penelope, roused at last from her happy oblivion, "but whenever I bring home what I think is good news it always seems to upset Esther. I thought she was just dying for us all to be able to do something to help father and Cousin Charlotte, and this seemed such a lovely thing! Of course there is all the expense first, but _if_ I have a really good voice, later on I should be able to keep you all, and give you all you want. I think she might have seemed a little bit glad." "Perhaps she is worried," said Angela, "because she wants you to have lessons, and there isn't any money for them, and--and I think she is tired." "I wish she would not do so much and get so tired," said Penelope wistfully. "We scarcely ever see her now; she hardly ever has any time to play, and--and it is disappointing when she acts like that." Penelope's voice quavered a little, in spite of herself, and she rose and looked out of window that Angela might not see her misty eyes. "Never mind, dear," coaxed comforting Angela, "don't you fret. Essie is as glad as either of us, _really_, and by and by she will be all right. Let us go out on the moor, and talk over what we will do when you are rich, shall we?" "Yes," said Penelope, with a little sigh, and a shake to shake off her gloom. "Dear old moor, I feel I want to lie down on it and hug it when big, nice things happen, and tell it all about them. Come along, Angel." Esther, from upstairs, saw them go out together, Angela's arm about Pen's waist, Penelope's arm about Angela's shoulders. With angry eyes and aching heart she watched them go through the garden, and guessed whither they were bound; and a sense of loneliness, of being shut out, stole over her. Cousin Charlotte had gone to Gorley and taken Poppy with her, so she was quite alone. With a hasty movement she flung on her hat, and dashed downstairs and out of the front door. "If they went out, she could go out too," she told herself angrily, and could find her own company sufficient. If they went one way she would go another, the moor was large enough, and--and at any rate the tors and the gorse and the birds liked her as much as they liked Penelope. She would not there be put aside for her younger sister. By that time she had worked herself up into such a state of resentfulness of imagined injuries and fancied wrongs, she felt she could hardly endure her unhappy lot. She walked along the road in a perfect turmoil of mind, and, fearing she might meet some one, turned down towards the bridge and the river; but the weather had been rainy lately, and the river was swollen, and the bank all wet and slippery.