She runs upstairs, still calling, "Lucy, Lucy!" She peeps into every room; there is no Lucy to be found.
At last a thought strikes her. "Surely she hasn't hidden herself away to read in the attic?" Betty's anger rises. Lucy is in the attic, sitting all huddled up in a chair, poring intently over a book; books, and pen and ink, on the floor beside her.
"Lucy, what on earth are you doing here? And to-day, of all days! I've been searching the whole house to find you; we all want our tea, and you are calmly amusing yourself with a book!"
"Tea? It isn't tea-time yet, is it?" stammers Lucy, her pale face flushing painfully red, as she pushes her book out of Betty's sight.
"You know I always like tea early on washing-day," cries Betty, still more sharply, "and I must say, I do think it most selfish and thoughtless of you to go away by yourself like this, when we are all up to our eyes in work!"
"I didn't know; I thought the washing was finished," says poor Lucy, her lip beginning to quiver.
"That's nothing to do with it; we're all tired and want our tea; but you never gave that a thought; all you seem to care for is to get away by yourself to read some silly story-book. Such shocking waste of time! Such unsociable behaviour! I only hope you are not reading novels. I am sure it looks as though you come up here sometimes because you are afraid to let father and mother know what you are doing!"
Lucy's head droops lower still, but she makes no answer.
"Well, now, is it a novel?"
"No-o."