"I don't know I think it does, sometimes," said Lucy. "But, anyhow, I cannot help feeling mean and wicked when Cousin Deborah talks about trusting me and I know that I am telling her lies and deceiving her all the time. I wish I had told her all about the thimble the first minute I lost it. If I had gone out and picked it up, and told her how it came out there, she might have been angry; but she would have forgiven me, I know, and it would have been all right now." "Then why did you not tell her before she went away?" asked Anne. "That was different," replied Lucy. "I had told her more than one lie already; and you know how she hates lies. And there is the gipsy-woman, too! But please, Anne, don't talk to me any more now. I want to practise my music and learn my tables, as I promised Cousin Deborah." Dinner-time came, and near the hour at which they had promised to meet the gipsy, Lucy and Anne were at the spring. The woman was there before them, seated on a stone, with her red cloak drawn about her, and her elbow resting on her knee. She was stirring the water of the little spring with a peeled rod she held in her hand, and seemed to be muttering something to herself. "So you are come at last," said the hag, sternly, addressing herself to Lucy. "Well for you that you were no later. Have you brought what I told you?" Lucy trembled as she drew from her pocket a small, gold-handled fruit-knife and put it into the hand of the woman, whose experienced eyes at once told her that the metal was pure. "It is small; but it may do," said she. She turned her back upon the two spectators, and proceeded to rub the knife, to breathe upon it, and go through various mystical ceremonies, while Lucy and Anne looked on in silent awe. "You must leave this with me to-night," she said; "and to-morrow at this hour you must bring me something more." "I must not,—I dare not," exclaimed Lucy, in great distress. "But you shall," said the witch, with a fearful frown, "or great trouble will visit you. Take your choice; but remember." And, without another word, she turned her back upon Lucy and Anne, and stalked off down the valley by the side of the brook, till a turn in the path hid her from their eyes. CHAPTER V. "WELL, my lady," said Anne, when the old woman had disappeared, "what shall we do now?" Lucy stood looking at the spring, watching the tiny stream as it trickled down the rock and fell, with a soft, silver tinkle, into the little stone basin. She stood a while in silence, and her face began to assume a new expression,—a look of gentle determination, such as Anne had never seen upon it before. "What shall we do, my lady?" repeated Anne. And at the same moment, Jack, the donkey, who had stood patiently dozing during the whole interview, pushed his head over Lucy's shoulder. "We will go home," said Lucy, lifting her eyes from the spring at last; "and we will never come here again,—never!" she repeated, firmly.