Lady Lucy's secret

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"I should just like to know what has set you on thinking of all these grave things so suddenly," said Anne. "You never did so at Mrs. Bernard's, and you read six chapters in the Bible, for one that you read with Mrs. Corbet."

"That was very different," said Lucy. "Aunt Bernard never explained any thing to me. All she did was to slap my hands if I did not call the words right; and she kept me standing up to read till I was ready to drop, and so stupid that I could not understand any thing if I tried. Cousin Deborah only lets me read a short lesson at a time,—one psalm, or a part of a chapter, in the New Testament,—and she explains every verse, and tells me the meaning of all the hard words. It was one verse we talked about which made me resolve to have nothing more to do with the gipsy, and to confess the truth to Cousin Debby when she comes home."

"Tell me all about it," said Anne, willing to talk about any thing rather than hold her tongue and listen to the approaching thunder, and the roar of the waves on the beach below. "What was the verse?"

"It was, 'If I regard wickedness in my heart, the Lord will not hear me!'" repeated Lucy. "Cousin Deborah said that meant that if we kept wicked thoughts in our minds, and wicked desires in our hearts, God would not hear our prayers. She said that we need not be afraid to pray, even though we had been ever so wicked, if only we were truly sorry for our sin; but unless we were sorry, and meant to leave off our sin, there was no use in praying."

"True enough," said Anne, in rather a sleepy tone. "My! What a flash. The storm is coming nearer and nearer."

"Well," continued Lucy, "then came the letter from my dear father, in which he said they were going to have a dreadful battle, and asked me to pray to God for him. I do want to pray for him," said Lucy, with a trembling voice. "It seems to be all the comfort there is, when I think of him in the midst of the swords and cannon balls, or perhaps lying on the ground wounded under the horses' feet, like that poor soldier in the great picture down-stairs: but what is the use of my praying, if I am inclining to wickedness with my heart all the time?"

"These are grave thoughts for a little lady like you," said Anne, not altogether at ease in her own mind. "I am sure the parson could not say all that any better. I don't like filling a young head with such things, for my part. Time enough when you grow an old lady, like Mrs. Corbet."

"Perhaps I shall never live to be an old lady like Mrs. Corbet," said Lucy: "and the French soldiers will not wait for me to grow up, to shoot at my dear papa."

"And that is true, too," said Anne. "Well, my dear, I am sure I am glad you find comfort in the Bible, and I would be the last one to oppose you. I remember when my poor sister was in the waste of which she died; after her sweetheart was drowned in the fishing-boat, the Bible was her only comfort. I have been sorry ever since, that I let you have any thing to do with that gipsy-woman; and I shall never forgive myself if harm comes of it to you."

"What harm can come besides the loss of the knife and of my silver sixpence? I do not believe the Lord will hear that wicked woman,—for I am sure she is wicked,—and you know, Anne, if he takes care of us, nothing can harm us. I was learning a beautiful psalm this very evening which tells about that. Shall I say it to you?"