"No," replied Cousin Debby: "I thought it better to wait till the petticoat was finished. Something might happen to prevent your sewing, or you might be wanting in perseverance and then the poor woman would be disappointed. Do you know the meaning of 'perseverance'?" "No, ma'am." "Why do you not ask, then?" "Aunt Bernard would never let me ask questions," replied Lucy. "She said it was not proper." "There are times when it is not proper for little girls to ask questions," said Cousin Debby,—"as, for instance, in company, or when they interrupt their elders by so doing. But, Lucy, I want you always to feel free to ask me any questions you please when we are alone together. I may not always see fit to answer you; but I shall never be displeased at your asking, so that you do it in a proper spirit." "What do you mean by a proper spirit?" Lucy ventured to inquire. "Perhaps I can illustrate the matter best by telling you what is not a proper spirit. If I should tell you it was time to go to bed, and you should ask, in a fretful tone, 'Why must I go to bed now? Why cannot I sit up as long as you do?' That would be an improper spirit. But if you should obey directly, and should then ask, 'Why must little girls go to bed earlier than grown-up people?' because you wished to know the reason, I should then be ready to tell you all I know about the matter. "Sometimes children ask impertinent questions,—as if you were to see me reading a letter and should ask whom it was from. Sometimes, too, they ask silly and troublesome questions, just to hear themselves talk,—which is a very disagreeable habit. "Your asking the meaning of the word 'perseverance' would be a proper question; and I am very glad to answer it. To persevere in any thing you undertake to do is to keep at it till it is finished. If you work steadily at the baby's petticoat at all proper times till it is done, you will persevere. Now do you understand?" "Yes, ma'am," replied Lucy. "I think it is pleasant to understand." All this time the thought of the thimble was in Lucy's mind, lying under all her other thoughts, as a stone lies under a running stream. It did not make her so unhappy as it ought to have done; for, unluckily, Lucy was used to having such concealments and to hiding her faults as long as possible. She was not miserable at the thought that she had disobeyed and deceived her cousin: she only thought how she would be punished if the thimble were lost. Aunt Bernard had never taught her to exercise her conscience—to do things because they were right, or refrain from them because they were wrong. But she felt in a great hurry to get back to the Hall, in order that she might find the thimble and restore it to its place before it was missed.