He did not read all the time, for he kept looking into the fire, and seemed to be thinking of something besides the contents of the paper.
“What is the matter, Flora?” asked he, at last, as he laid the newspaper on the table. “You are very quiet to-night. You generally laugh and play at this time in the evening.”
“I can’t help thinking about my thimble, father. I would give any thing to know what has become of it,” replied she, earnestly.
“Perhaps Mary can tell you something about it,” added Mr. Lee, as he fixed his gaze upon the gardener’s daughter.
“I don’t know any thing about it, sir,” replied Mary, her face turning very red, as her eyes met the stern look of Mr. Lee.
“Were you with Flora at the time she lost the thimble?”
“Yes, sir; I suppose I was; but I haven’t got the thimble.”
“I know you haven’t got it, Mary. I only asked you if you were with Flora at the time she lost it.”
“I guess I was, sir; I don’t know. But I haven’t seen it, sir; as true as I live and breathe, I haven’t.”
“Didn’t you see it on the table, when Flora left it? Just think a moment.”