"You have not quite guessed it, Lucy. Appearances were so very strongly against that poor child, that I am not at all astonished you should have disbelieved her assertion. In the moment of irritation, it is not unlikely I should have done so myself; but the favor I am going to ask you, is merely that you will try and _never show_ that you doubt her word, or refer to her past failures. I am quite convinced that untruth is not Ellen's natural disposition, but that it has been caused by the same circumstances which have made her such a painfully timid, too humble character. If, with all her efforts to conquer herself, she still finds her word doubted, and the past brought forward, she never will be able to succeed. Examine as strictly and carefully as you please, and as I am sure she will desire, if necessary--as she did to-day--but oblige me, and _never doubt her_. If she finds we never do, it will raise her self-esteem, and give her a still further incentive to adhere as strictly to the truth, as she sees we believe she does. I am certain the habit of falsehood has often been strengthened by the injudicious and cruel references to one or two childish failures. If I am never to be believed, what is the use of trying to tell the truth? is the very natural question; and the present pain of carefulness being greater than the visible amount of evil, the habit is confirmed. Will you oblige me?" "Of course I will, dearest Mrs. Hamilton; how can you talk so! Have you not a right to desire what you think proper, in my guidance of your children, instead of so appealing to me as an equal?" "And are you not? My dear Lucy, have I ever, in act or word, considered you otherwise? In the very intrusting my children to your care, do I not prove that I must think you so? Have you lived with me all these years, and not yet discovered that I have some few notions peculiar perhaps to myself, but that one among them is, that we can never consider too much, or be too grateful to those invaluable friends who help us in the training of our children?" "I have lived long enough with you to know that there never was, never can be, any woman like you, either as wife, mother, mistress, or friend!" exclaimed Miss Harcourt, with most unusual fervor. "You did not know your own mother, dearest Lucy, as how I wish you had, or you would not think so. Every firm, truthful, estimable quality I may possess, under God's blessing, I owe to her. As a young child, before she came to me, and some years afterward, I was more like Ellen than either of my own darlings; and that perhaps explains the secret of my love for, and forbearance with her." "Like Ellen!" repeated Miss Harcourt, much surprised; "forgive me, but, indeed, I can scarcely believe it."