But this state of things must not go on: it is a miserable thing to write down, but I cannot believe a word the child says! And the evil is increasing. Only now and then used Fanny to be detected in what we called a fib, but now the terrible doubt lest that little mouth may be at any moment uttering lies takes the delight out of life, and accounts for the pale looks which give my kind husband so much concern.
For example, only within the last day or two I have noticed the following and other such examples:—
“Fanny, did you remember to give my message to cook?”
“Yes, mother.”
“And what did she say?”
“That she wouldn’t be able to make any jam to-day because the fruit had not come.”
I went into the kitchen shortly after, and found cook stirring the contents of a brass pan, and, sad to say, I asked no questions. It was one of Fanny’s circumstantial statements of the kind I have had most reason to doubt. Did she lie because she was afraid to own that she had forgotten? Hardly so: knowing the child’s sensitive nature, we have always been careful not to visit her small misdemeanours with any punishment whenever she “owned up.” And then, cowardice would hardly cause her to invent so reasonable an answer for cook. Again:
“Did you meet Mrs. Fleming’s children?”
“Oh, yes, mother! and Berty was so rude! He pushed Dotty off the curb-stone!”
Nurse, who was sitting by the fire with baby, raised her eyebrows in surprise, and I saw the whole thing was an invention. Another more extraordinary instance: