Since the loss of the book, every time the bell had rung, my heart leaped as though it would burst through my body, and I looked anxiously at Mary Wild when she came into the kitchen again; but nothing came of all this. One day, Mary, having a bad fit of toothache, I had to wait at table. That very afternoon mistress sent to speak to me; she was sitting in the inner drawing-room. Strange to say, that much as I had thought about the book, at that very moment I had forgotten all about it, and almost started when mistress said, “Fanny, I want to know if you have misplaced a book that was on that table: it is nearly a week since I missed it, but not chancing to want it till now, I forgot to make inquiry about it.” I turned very red. I could not speak. My mistress looked questioningly into my face. “Do you know where it is, Fanny?” “No—yes—no, indeed, ma’am, no.” “Fanny, Fanny! I am sure you are not speaking the truth; there is something wrong—you _do_ know something about it.” And she looked fixedly on my face. I became redder still, but did not answer. “Where is it? what is become of it?” “Indeed, I have had nothing to do with the loss of that book.” “To do with the _loss?_ Then you allow that you do know that it is lost? How can you know this without having something to do with it?” “Oh! pray, ma’am, pray, pray ask the nurse.” “The nurse! what can she possibly have to do with the loss of that book?” Again I was silent. The bell was rung, and the nurse ordered to come down. A glance at her face told me that she knew what was going on. “Nurse,” said my mistress, “Fanny asks me to go to you to account for the loss of a book which has been missing for some days out of this room. Do you know any thing about it?” “I, ma’am!” said the nurse, pretending to be very much surprised. “Yet I can’t say that I know nothing about a book that _was_ in this room.” Then turning to me—“Did you not put it back again? you know very well that I threatened to tell mistress about it; and I’m very sorry, now, that I did not tell her.” The only word I could say was, “Nurse!” “I am sure, ma’am,” said the nurse, “I should have been very sorry to say any thing against her—and if you had not found her out, I should not have told about her. She is but young, ma’am, and may improve—but, indeed, ma’am, never in my life did I see a young girl tell a lie with such a face of innocence.” I was bursting with shame and vexation. “May I speak, ma’am? Oh! pray hear me—it was not I: it was _she_ who lost the book. Do let me speak, ma’am; pray let me tell you—” “No, you shall have no inducement to tell more falsehoods. I fear I shall be obliged to send you home again; I can not have any one with my children who tells untruths.” And she pointed to the nurse to open the door for me. As she was doing so, nurse said, “She told me, ma’am, how you had caught her reading one morning, when—” Here she shut me out and herself in.