Lucy Vale did not seem quite satisfied with her first search; again she furtively glanced about, before she sat down to read the chapter in the Bible, which she had been taught never to omit at night. Lucy read her Bible as a duty, not because she loved it, or wished to learn the will of God, and now she could not fix her attention at all upon its sacred pages.
She was hardly seated when a slight sound in the orchard attracted her notice; she jumped up and ran to the window. All was quiet in that peaceful scene, save the occasional dropping of the ripe fruit. The shadows of the leaves quivered in the moonlight in what seemed to her a mysterious manner; a strange feeling of fear stole over her; she did not return to the Bible, but having hastily undressed, she fell upon her knees for her evening prayer. Lucy would have thought it very wicked to go to sleep without what she called saying her prayers. In truth it was only saying them, for while she repeated the solemn words, her thoughts were far away. Sometimes she would get so busily thinking of other things, that her lips would cease to move, and she would remain on her knees, buried in thought, for many minutes. As soon as she remembered why she was kneeling, she would hurry over the remainder of her prayers and go to bed, quite satisfied that she had done her duty.
On this particular evening her prayers were soon over, and she was quickly in bed, leaving the lamp burning; its light however was of but little use to her, as she thrust her head under the covering, hardly leaving space enough to breathe through.
If Mrs. Maxwell, the housekeeper, had known that Lucy kept her light burning at night, she would have scolded her severely, for she often said, "it was flying in the face of nature to try to make night like day, and for her part she thought it downright wicked to be wasting oil when everybody was asleep, to say nothing of the danger of fire."
Dr. Vale had lost his wife when Lucy was just six years old, and since that time Mrs. Maxwell had been his housekeeper; he trusted everything to her, and she seemed to take the greatest delight in being economical, that none of her master's substance might be wasted. She was not bad-tempered, but she had a stern, harsh manner, and was easily worried by children, only thinking them good when they were silent and stirred neither hand nor foot. Lucy seldom came near her without being blamed for something, or told to sit down and be quiet.
The little girl would have been quite lonely had it not been for her brother Hartwell, who was just two years older than herself. Lucy was now ten, but Hartwell seemed to think her a very little child, hardly fit to be his companion, yet he would sometimes permit her to play with him, and a dearly-bought pleasure it was. Harty, as he was generally called, was indolent; he could not bear to move about, and therefore found it very convenient to have Lucy to wait upon him. He never seemed to have thought his sister might not like running up and down stairs any better than he did. It was so easy when he wanted anything to tell Lucy to run for it, that sometimes he kept her little feet in such constant motion that at night she was quite tired out. If she ever complained, he told her, girls were made to wait on boys, and if she could not do such trifles for him she had better go to her doll-baby and not be about in his way. Lucy loved her brother, and liked to be near him, so she seldom refused to do what he asked her, although he often called her disobliging when she had been trying her best to please him.
Hartwell was very fond of teasing, and his poor little sister had to suffer for his amusement. Sometimes he would make her cry, by telling her that she was so ugly that it was painful to look at her; at others he would call her a coward, and run after her to put insects on her neck, or he would jump out from a dark corner and shout in her ear when she thought herself quite alone.
As you will conclude, Lucy did not lead a very happy life. Her father was so constantly occupied that he seldom took his meals with the family, and sometimes hardly spoke to his little daughter for days together. She had no one to whom she could talk freely; Mrs. Maxwell never listened to her, and her brother was so apt to laugh at what she said, that she did not dare to tell him many things that troubled her. She was naturally a timid child, but since her mother's death she had grown so bashful that she could hardly answer when a stranger spoke to her. Many of her childish fears, which a kind friend in the beginning could easily have banished, had become so strong that she lived in perpetual alarm.