"I will try, Cousin Debby."
"I shall be gone a day or two,—not longer, I think," continued Cousin Deborah. "And if I hear a good account of you on my return, and see that you have tried to give me pleasure by being faithful and industrious, I shall be very much gratified; because it will show that you are a trustworthy little girl."
"Yes, Cousin Debby," murmured Lucy, again.
"Very well, my love. Then I shall venture to take this little journey, having confidence that you will not fall into any mischief because I am not here to watch you. I trust you, Lucy."
"When shall you go, Cousin Deborah?" asked Lucy, feeling—oh, so small and mean in her own estimation, as the thought crossed her mind that Cousin Deborah's going away would remove all hindrances to her meeting the gipsy-woman.
"I cannot tell until I see Mattison and find out what horse there is for me to ride. It is something of a journey,—twenty good miles; and I am not so good a horsewoman as I was thirty years ago, when I rode from Exeter to London on the mare that all the men were afraid of."
Mattison was an old, broken-down trooper, who was head-groom and general master of the horse at Stanton Court. Consultation with him revealed the fact that there was a steady old gray horse, just the thing for a lady like Mrs. Corbet, and a broken-down charger left behind by my lord, which would answer very well for Mattison, who was to accompany her. So it was settled that they should take an early breakfast and set out from Stanton Court in the cool of the morning, resting, during the hottest part of the day, at the house of an old lady, a friend of Cousin Deborah's.
Anne was a little surprised, the next morning, to see Lady Lucy, after she had watched her cousin down the avenue, turn into the terrace parlour, as it was called, and seat herself at her lute, with the hour-glass by which she was used to time her tasks, on the table by the side of her lesson-book. She had expected to see Lucy take the opportunity to play.
"You are very industrious, my lady," said she. "That is not the way you used to do when Mrs. Bernard went away."
"Aunt Bernard was one person, and Cousin Deborah is another," said Lucy. "Cousin Deborah said she trusted me to be a good girl; and I am going to try and please her. Aunt Bernard never trusted me; and you know yourself, Anne, I never could please her, do what I would. It never made one bit of difference whether I did my tasks or let them alone; and so I used to feel as though I might as well do one thing as an other. But Cousin Deborah always praises me if I do well and if I do ill, she does not seem vexed—only sorry; that makes me feel as though I wanted to do every thing right."