"Well, I'll not say but you are in the right," replied Anne, seriously. "Mrs. Corbet is one of the best ladies I ever knew, I will say for her; and it was a blessed day for you which put you into her hands. By the way, has she ever said any thing about the thimble?"
"Not a word," replied Lucy. "It seems as though she must have missed it; but she has never spoken about it."
"I don't understand it," returned Anne. "She may be waiting to see if you will find it and put it back of your own accord."
"Do you think the gipsy-woman will be able to tell where it is, Anne?"
"I can't justly say. They do know wonderful things, to be sure. And it is not safe to offend them, either; for there is no knowing what revenge they may take. There was a woman my grandmother knew, who lived on the edge of Exmoor,—" And forthwith Anne plunged into a foolish tale, effectually diverting Lucy's mind from her practising, and making her feel more than ever afraid of not keeping her appointment with the gipsy.
"If I could only feel right about Cousin Deborah," said she; "but I am almost sure she will not like it."
"She will not know it," argued Anne; "and what folks don't know don't hurt them, folks say."
"I don't know I think it does, sometimes," said Lucy. "But, anyhow, I cannot help feeling mean and wicked when Cousin Deborah talks about trusting me and I know that I am telling her lies and deceiving her all the time. I wish I had told her all about the thimble the first minute I lost it. If I had gone out and picked it up, and told her how it came out there, she might have been angry; but she would have forgiven me, I know, and it would have been all right now."
"Then why did you not tell her before she went away?" asked Anne.
"That was different," replied Lucy. "I had told her more than one lie already; and you know how she hates lies. And there is the gipsy-woman, too! But please, Anne, don't talk to me any more now. I want to practise my music and learn my tables, as I promised Cousin Deborah."