She was, therefore, not very well pleased when Cousin Debby said that, as the day was cool, they would walk to the village and call upon the rector's family, adding, "You will be glad to see Polly and Dulcie again; and, as little Willy Mattison is here, we will send him to bring down the donkey, that you may ride back."
Lucy would much rather have gone home; but she dared not object. She could not see any way to help herself: so she put the thought of the thimble as far away as she could, and resolved to make the best of matters.
The village church and parsonage lay about a mile from Stanton Court, and the walk to it was a lovely one,—through the woods, and along the banks of that very stream by which Lucy had stolen away to feed the swans. Now and then they passed a tiny waterfall; and more than once a lovely little spring came dripping down the rock, and collected in a little basin before it ran into the brook. On a stone by one of these springs sat a square wooden cup, roughly hewn out of a piece of hard wood; and here they stopped to drink. Cousin Debby knew the names of many of the plants, and the ways and habits of the birds and insects, and she told Lucy many interesting tales of their doings and customs. It would have been a very delightful walk if it had not been for that unlucky thimble and, even as it was, Lucy enjoyed it greatly, as well as the visit which followed.
Polly and Dulcie were strong, healthy, high-spirited girls, and, with their warm hearts and truthful ways, were as good companions as could be found for the poor, crushed, reserved little lady. So Cousin Debby thought; and she resolved to encourage a friendship between them. They gave Lucy a warm welcome, and did their best to entertain her,—showing her their gardens, the grotto which they were ornamenting with shell-work after the fashion of the time, and finally took her into the meadow, to show her Polly's little hornless cow, which was as tame and almost as playful as a kitten. Lucy looked across the stream into her aunt's garden, and up at the house where she had spent so many dreary hours, with a feeling of wonder.
"There is Mrs. Bernard now, walking on the green," said Polly. "Poor lady, how lonely she must be! I can't help feeling sorry for her, after all."
"I don't feel sorry for her," said Lucy, under her breath. "I hate her; and I should like to see her served just as she served me."
Lucy said these words with all energy which showed that she was thoroughly in earnest, and which made the gentle little Dulcie look up with surprise and horror.
"Oh, Lady Lucy, you should not feel so! It is not right. If she has treated you ever so bad, you ought to forgive her."
"Aunt Bernard never forgave me or anybody," returned Lucy. "She said once that she never forgave or forgot; and I have heard Margery say that she would never answer her own son's letter, when he wrote begging her pardon for running away to sea."
"Then she is a wicked woman, and you should not try to be like her," said plain-spoken Polly.