Lucy was very much frightened at this occurrence. She put the pen back in its place, and began to walk as fast as she could go out of the room. In a moment, however, she reflected that, as soon as her father came in, he would see the ink spot, and would at once inquire who made it. So she thought that she would come and shut the book up, and that would keep the ugly-looking blot out of sight. She accordingly came back hastily to the table, shut the book up, and then went immediately away.
But, notwithstanding this ingenious precaution, her mind continued in a state of great agitation and alarm. She went back to her cricket, and began to look over her book again; but she felt very wretched. Finally, she came to the very wise conclusion of going back at once, and finding her father, and telling him all about the affair.
She put her book down upon the cricket, and went again towards her father’s room. She found her father just going into the room, with a large book of maps under his arm.
“Well, Lucy,” said her father, “are you coming to see me?”
Lucy walked slowly towards him, with a downcast look, but she said nothing. “What is the matter, Lucy?” said her father.
“Why,—why,” said Lucy, in a very low and timid voice,—“the ink has got on your great book.”
“My great book? What book?” said her father.
“Your great book on the table;—that great book.”
So saying, Lucy pointed to the book upon the table; for by this time they had got into the room where they could see the table and the book upon it.
“Where?” said her father. “Where is the ink?”