"Just the way," thought Lucy. "She always thinks of what I shall like. Oh, how wicked I am! Oh, if I only dared tell her all about the thimble! I wonder if I could? But, then, the gipsy-woman, and those terrible threats. Oh, dear! I never thought I could be so unhappy at Stanton Court."
Lucy broke the seal of the letter neatly, as Cousin Deborah showed her how to do, and opened the broad sheet, which was closely written from end to end.
"Please to read it for me, Cousin Debby. I never can read writing-hand fast."
"You must take pains to learn, Lucy. I have some very pretty letters, which you can practise upon; but I will read this one to you, if you please."
The letter was dated at the Duke of Marlborough's head-quarters, near Neuburg, a little place on the river Danube, not very far from Ingolstadt. It gave an account of such events of his journey as Lord Stanton thought would be interesting to his little daughter.
"It is generally believed that we are upon the eve of a great and decisive battle," said he; "though exactly when and how it will take place, of course, I cannot inform you; but I believe before this letter reaches you, the Duke of Marlborough and his noble ally, Prince Eugene, will have defeated the army of the French king, under Marshall Tallard, or will have been defeated themselves. The soldiers are in the best of spirits, and full of trust in their great commander, insomuch that no officer thinks of asking the reason of any of his motions, but all follow him with blind confidence in his wisdom.
"But let my dear child give God thanks that she lives in a country where the horrors of such war are unknown. The sights one sees here are enough to break a man's heart. Smoking ruins which only a few days since were thriving towns and lovely hamlets; old men, and little children, and mothers with infants at their breasts, lying down to starve at the roadside, or killed by the falling of their own roof-trees; fruitful fields, lately ripening to the harvest, now trampled and bare: these are but a few of the horrors which constantly meet one's eyes. I do not suppose this ruin can be helped; but it is indeed hard that such distress and destruction should fall upon innocent heads, and that the French king, whose mad ambition has brought about all this, should be living in luxury and quietness, far from the very sound of war.
"It may be, my daughter, that this is the last letter you will ever receive from your father. The duke has bestowed upon me the command of my old regiment; and should there be a battle, which seems imminent, you may be sure that your father will not be backward to do his part and sustain the honour of our country. Should I fall, you will be left in a position of great responsibility. Never forget, my child, that you are but the steward of your wealth, which you are to use not for your own selfish ease and pleasure, but for the honour of God and the good of your fellows, specially of those who as tenants and servants are more immediately in your power and under your influence. Take your cousin Deborah's advice in all things, and be governed by her; but, above all, pray to your Father in heaven for the guidance of his Holy Spirit.
"These are matters which I have neglected too much in the course of my life; but during my imprisonment, and while I was deprived of all outward solace, God was pleased to bring me to a better mind; and I trust, if my life be spared, I shall serve him henceforth as a Christian man should do.
"One thing more, my dear Lucy: I parted with your aunt Bernard, as you know, in great anger,—not without just cause. But it is my duty to pardon all, even as I would myself be pardoned. I would not appear before God save in charity with all men. I therefore desire that you will convey to my sister Bernard the assurance of my full and free forgiveness, in such way as Cousin Deborah may think best; and I also desire that you, Lucy, will forgive her for the wrongs she has done you. Cease not to pray for your father, my child; and may the God of the fatherless be your support if I am taken from you!"
Lucy listened to this letter with quiet tears rolling down her face and dropping in Cousin Deborah's apron.
"Oh," she thought, "if I only dared tell her all about the thimble! If only it were not for those dreadful things the woman spoke of!"
"Now, Lucy, how shall we manage to convey your father's message to Aunt Bernard?" asked Cousin Deborah. "Will you go and carry it to her?"
"Oh, Cousin Deborah, I dare not!" said Lucy, turning pale. "I dare not speak to Aunt Bernard. You don't know how afraid I am of her."