Up and down, to and fro, backwards and for wards over the sunny gardenthe butterflies, white, sulphur, and brown, flitted and fluttered,lightly poising on currant-bush or flower, loving life as they baskedin the sunshine; and Penelope lay and watched them. What did it matterto them that the garden was neglected, the grass rank and uncut,the currant-bushes barren from neglect, the lilacs old and blossomless?It mattered no more to them than it did to Penelope, lying so lazy andhappy in the coarse grass.
Penelope had never known the garden other than it was now, except,perhaps, at very far-distant intervals when a visitor was expected—usually Aunt Julia, when a shilling or so had to be found to pay agardener to come and 'tidy up.' She herself was always better pleasedwhen he did not come, for almost invariably he charged too much,or Lydia said he did, and would tell him of it, not too politely, and tellher mistress that she was encouraging robbery; and Mrs. Carroll—who wouldfar rather pay too much and hear no more about it than be bothered—wouldbe worried, and Lydia would be cross; and to Penelope it seemed a pity tobe made so uncomfortable for the sake of sixpence or a shilling.She could not bear jars and discords. These, though, were troubles thatoccurred but seldom to ruffle the surface of her usually happy life.As a rule, like the butterflies, she saw only the sunshine, and the greenthings growing, and nothing of the sordidness and neglect of everythingabout her. If she did, if things jarred or fretted her, she just walkedaway, far out into the country and the woods where everything waspeaceful, and nothing seemed to matter; and out there she would very soonrecover again and become her old happy self.
There were three other Carroll children—Esther, the eldest, Angela, andPoppy, the baby of them all. Penelope was the second, aged nearly twelve.
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