As Lena lay waiting for Milly to come to bed—for Lena had been sent off first by Mama—she decided that she would tell Milly when she came in, and then together they would tell their mother; but all her plans were frustrated by the weary eyes closing in sleep before her sister came in, and so quiet was Milly that she did not awake her.
The following morning doubts and conjectures began to trouble Lena. Milly made such a fuss when she began to speak of the hat, and say she would not hear a word more about it; she had said she did not care one bit about it. Still conscience kept telling her over and over again, that there was but one path before her, and that was a very plain and straight one, called Truth. The longer she put off telling, the more difficult it became. She would tell her while dressing. "Milly," she began, just before they left the room, "I want to speak to you about the hat."
"O Lena, please don't say anything now about it, or I shall hate it. Mama and I decided last night that it is to be left in its box, and I shall forget all about it: I could not wear it now."
"Could not wear it now," Lena repeated, but no one heard her, for Milly had left the room. "Could Mama and Milly have opened the box last night and seen what had happened? Yes, that must be it; how good and kind Milly was to forgive her so easily. She would show her how grateful she was, and how much she loved her and Mama too for forgiving her." She felt she did not deserve this kind treatment, but she would try to in the future. All that day Lena expected her mother to say something about the feather, but not one word was said, not even when they were alone. Lena tried very hard all that day to be good, and was gentle and affectionate to both her sisters, especially Milly, who was so glad to have Lena once more on amiable terms with her that she was in the best and highest spirits.
When Mama gave her little girls their good-night kiss, Lena said, "How good you are to me, Mama!"
"When one tries to be good oneself, darling, one always finds that others are trying to be the same; as when one is cross, one thinks everybody is cross too."
Lucy had not forgotten Bessie's remark, that perhaps Milly had overlooked her present, and that very probably it had got among the paper that formed the wrappings of the hat and work-basket. To find this out Lucy was quite determined, but how to do so was the difficulty. She had asked Mama if she would look, but her answer had not been satisfactory to the child—"Milly had looked, and the paper from Mrs. Clifford proved that only Milly was to receive anything." Lucy wanted to see for herself. The box was in Mama's wardrobe she knew, and could be very easily got at and searched, if only she could do so without being seen. Some days passed away, and no opportunity occurred. One was sure to come, for it is wonderful how opportunities do occur, for either good or evil, when eagerly watched for. It was the case with Lucy. Colonel and Mrs. Graham had gone to return a visit some distance off; the two elder girls had gone with Miss Marshall, Gertrude Freeling and her governess for a long walk to some woods in the neighbourhood. This walk had long been talked of, but it was too far to go in their usual walking hours, so had been arranged for a half-holiday. When Gertrude and Miss Gifford called for the Grahams, Astbury being on the way, they brought word that Bessie was not going with them; she would come down later and take Lucy for a play in the fields. This was a splendid opportunity for Lucy to search the box. Hester was busy in the nursery, so Lucy asked leave to go and meet Bessie. This was at once accorded, for the time fixed on for her coming was close at hand. Instead of going out at once, Lucy went to her mother's room. Shutting the door quietly, so that she should not be seen, she opened the wardrobe. The box was too high for her to reach, so putting a chair close she mounted on it, and was thus enabled easily to reach the desired object. Placing it on the floor, she opened it, and lifting the hat out, put it on the floor beside her, without uncovering it from the paper in which it was wrapped. Then she made a careful but unavailing search. The child's face grew longer and longer as the conviction was at last forced upon her, that there was really nothing more there. It was quite true then that she had been told the truth by Milly, and Bessie was wrong. Anger succeeded to disappointment. Without waiting to remove the chair or to replace the box, she turned to go; the paper containing the hat lay before her: giving it a kick with her foot, for Lucy had worked herself into a rage by this time, she sent hat, paper, and all flying across the room. Then, without waiting to see the effects of the kick, she rushed out of the room, down the stairs, and into the garden. Bessie had not arrived, so she started off to meet her, and pour into her ever-friendly ear her tale of woe.
CHAPTER IX.
THE SPOILT FEATHER.
Lucy had not gone very far when she saw Bessie coming towards her, not walking along briskly and brightly as usual, but with a lagging step and drooping head, so unlike her usual self that even Lucy, full as she was of her own grievance, was struck by it.