"That's a strange doctrine for you to advance, my dear," said the doctor, glancing archly at his wife.
"I think I did not say exactly that, Ellen," answered the lady. "Though we ought always to speak the truth, if we speak at all; yet we are not bound to tell all we know, upon any subject. For instance; if a lady should call here whom you thought extremely disagreeable, and very homely; and Frank should ask you what you thought of her, it would be enough for you to say, you did not admire her. That would be the truth, but not all the truth."
"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Ellen, her eyes flashing with merriment. "I need not say, as Aunt Clarissa sometimes does, 'What a sallow complexion!' or, 'What a very homely nose!' or 'How wretchedly her dress fitted!' Though I might think it all the time."
"Or, I need not say," cried Frank, with mock gravity, "'Ellen, how red your lips are!' or, 'How your eyes sparkle!' or, 'What a pretty white hand you have!' Though I might think it all the time; but if I said so, it might make you vain, you know."
"In a court of justice," said Dr. Collins, "a person is put upon oath, that is, he promises before God, in whose presence he stands, to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. In that case, if Frank were asked what he thought of the personal appearance of his cousin, he might be obliged to repeat what he has just said, however painful such testimony would be."
The doctor glanced so comically at his niece when he said this, that, notwithstanding her blushes, she burst into a hearty laugh.
"Did you know, Ellen," inquired Mary, after a pause, "that a person can tell a lie, and yet not speak a word?"
"Oh, no, indeed! I thought a person must speak in order to lie. I'm sure I—"
She hesitated, colored, and stopped, while Mary, to relieve her, went on quickly,—
"Yes; mother explained that to me a long time ago."