"Then she is a wicked woman, and you should not try to be like her," said plain-spoken Polly. "Aunt Bernard said God hated sinners," persisted Lucy. "She said he hated me." "I don't believe that," said Polly. "I mean to ask my father. Anyway, Lady Lucy, it was not much like hating you when God brought back your father from the prison and gave you such a nice home and such a nice lady to take care of you." Lucy looked puzzled. "Did he do that? I never thought of that." "Of course he did. He gives us all things. That is the reason we call him our Father, I suppose." "I never thought of that," said Lucy, again. "I thought he was like a great king, who sat up in heaven and did not care what happened, only to punish people when they do wrong. I never thought of his being any thing like my father." "You ought to think so; and you ought to love him, too," said Polly. "The catechism says our duty towards God is to love him with all our might; and it is in the Bible, too. And I am sure you ought to forgive Mrs. Bernard." "I can't," returned Lucy. "You don't know how she treated me, Polly." "I know she was shamefully cruel to you; but, Lady Lucy," added Polly, reverently, "you know she could not treat you so ill as our Lord was treated; and he forgave all his enemies, even on the cross. And, besides, you know God will not forgive you unless you forgive your aunt." "It don't seem as if I could," said Lucy; and she looked again at the stately figure of Aunt Bernard, as she passed and repassed the archway in the holly hedges. "Oh, she was so hard,—so hard upon me!" she repeated, bitterly. "She never let me be happy one minute, if she could help it. And she abused my mamma. She called her a liar and an outlandish witch. No, Polly: I can't. I do hate her, and I always shall." "But, Lady Lucy, what will become of you when you die, if you go on so?" argued Dulcie. "You know you cannot go to heaven unless you do forgive your enemies and are in charity with all men; and you know your mamma is in heaven," she added, in a low voice. "And you cannot go to heaven unless God forgives you, either," added Polly. "You know we all do a great many wrong things, that need to be forgiven." Lucy thought of the thimble lying under the aloe-leaf on the terrace. "Don't talk about it any more," said she, abruptly. "See, there is your mother calling us. I dare say Cousin Debby is ready to go home." But Cousin Debby was not quite ready. Mrs. Burgess, in her hospitable kindness, would by no means allow them to depart without refreshment. The table was most invitingly set out in the great, cool parlour,—the parsonage had no other rooms below than the parlour and kitchen, and a room behind, which served the doctor for a study,—and Cousin Deborah and Lady Lucy must eat curds and cream and apricots and seed-cake and drink each a glass of gooseberry wine.