"Think, Lucy, who it is that has given you all these good things," said Cousin Deborah, "and then your returning thanks will not be mere empty, formal words."
As Lucy stood up and repeated her "grace after meat," a good old custom which seems to have gone quite out of fashion, she thought, "He gave me this nice dinner, too. I do wish I could be good, when he is so good to me!"
Often had Lucy been required to say those words when the whole dinner-hour had been one of misery to her,—when she had nothing, as it seemed to her, to be thankful for but sharp words, hard crusts, and harder raps from Aunt Bernard's knife or fan handle,—when her heart was bursting with a sense of oppression and unkindness. Then she had never thought of their meaning, but only how to say them so that she should not earn another red ridge upon her neck or arms.
Now she thought of their sense, and really felt thankful to God for the nice meal and the love which seasoned it. But still that verse recurred to her mind:
"'If I regard wickedness in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'"
"Now you may read to me a while; and after that, you and Anne can set out upon your expedition. I believe I will not go out to-day."
"Don't you feel well, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy.
"Yes, my dear; but I am somewhat tired. I am an old woman, you know, and cannot run about all day without being fatigued, as you young folks do."
"Are you really old, Cousin Debby?" asked Lucy, timidly.
"Yes, my dear: I am past sixty years old. I can just remember the day when King Charles the First was put to death; and I shall never forget the day that his son, Charles the Second, entered London after his restoration. I saw the long procession, and all the shows, and the feasts and bonfires in the streets. And I well remember the dreadful days of the great plague: though we did not live in London then, but some miles distant."