“Somewhere in the middle of it,” said Lucy. “But I don’t suppose I can find it now.”
Her father took up the great book, and began turning over the leaves; but he did not find the ink spot.
“But, Lucy,” said he, “how did you get the ink upon my book?”
“Why, father,” said Lucy, “you see, I was going to write me a letter, and the ink wouldn’t stay in the pen.”
“Now, Lucy, that was very wrong. You ought not to come to my table, and to take my pen and ink without leave. How big was the blot?”
“’Twas pretty big,” said Lucy, timidly.
“I can’t find the place,” said her father. “O, now I remember. It must have been at horizon. I was looking horizon, to see how it was accented.”
“No, sir, it was at hon. I remember now myself; it was at hon.”
Her father made no reply, but, after turning over a few leaves, he came at once to the place, and there, to Lucy’s utter astonishment, there were two blots, instead of one; there was one on each page. They were very large, too, much larger than the one which Lucy had seen.
“Now, there are two blots,” said Lucy; “how came that other one there?”