"WHAT are you doing with the box, Lucy, my dear?" asked Cousin Debby, opening the door.
"I—I was looking to see whether I put my thimble away." Lucy had given a guilty start, and stammered so, as she spoke, that any other child would have been at once suspected of lying.
But she was always so timid and frightened that Cousin Debby did not think of any thing being the matter, except that Lucy had been in doubt about her thimble.
"Did you think you had lost it, then?" she asked.
"I could not be sure. I did not remember," said Lucy, stammering more and more. "Please, Cousin Deborah, do not be angry with me."
"You poor little dear, how scared you are! You are all in a tremble, and your little face is as white as your kerchief," said Cousin Deborah, sitting down, and taking Lucy on her knee. "Lucy, my child, I do not wish you ever to be afraid of me, even if you have done wrong. Try to have confidence in me and think that I am your friend."
Lucy did not answer.
And Cousin Deborah, seeing that she still trembled, thought best to divert her from her fright.
"See here, my love, your stay-lacing is not fastened, nor your shoes properly buckled. Your cap and kerchief, too, are soiled, and need changing; nor do I think these little finger-ends have seen the water this morning. Did Anne dress you?"
"No, Cousin Debby: I dressed myself. I did not think it was any harm," said poor Lucy, who was so used to being blamed, whatever she did, that she was by no means sure she had not committed a grave offense in being her own dressing-maid.