It was with a fluttering and sinking heart that Lucy followed her cousin along the gallery to her own room. She had fully determined to confess all her fault to Cousin Debby, whatever might be the consequence; nor did she swerve from her resolution as the time drew near for putting it into practice. Nevertheless, she trembled so violently that her limbs almost failed to support her, when she found herself alone with Mrs. Corbet in her own room. If Cousin Deborah noticed her agitation, she probably imputed it to Lucy's late fright; for she made no remark upon it, but talked to Lucy of her journey, as she took off her riding-hat and bathed her face and hands. Then, sitting down in her chair, she called the little girl to her side, and put into her hands a small case, which she took from her pocket. "Open it, my dear! See, this is the way." Lucy opened it, and started with surprise. There lay the missing thimble, in all its old beauty of blue and white enamel, the gold as bright and pure as ever, with her mother's name upon the side. "Had you missed it?" asked Cousin Deborah. "I had an opportunity of sending to Exeter: so I despatched it to the goldsmith there to be mended and made a little smaller, that you might sometimes have the pleasure of using your mother's thimble. Why, Lucy, my dear child, what is the matter?" For Lucy had dropped upon her knees by her cousin's side, and, hiding her face in her lap, was crying so bitterly, that her whole frame was convulsed by her sobs. "Hush! Hush! My child. You will make yourself ill," said Cousin Deborah, soothing her. "What is it makes you cry? Did you think the thimble was lost?" "Oh, Cousin Debby, I have been so wicked," sobbed Lucy. "You will never love me again, when I tell you what I have done." "I shall not cease to love you, though you have been ever so naughty, if I see you are sorry for what you have done," said Cousin Deborah, gravely but kindly. "Compose yourself, my child, and tell me all about the matter." In low tones, and often interrupted with sobs, Lucy confessed the whole, hiding nothing, and making no attempt to excuse herself. Cousin Deborah listened in silence. As Lucy finished her tale, she laid her head again upon her cousin's knee. She expected to feel herself lifted roughly to her feet, and shaken out of breath; but she seemed determined to keep hold of her refuge as long as possible. But in a minute, a gentle hand stroked down her hair, and a gentle voice said,— "My poor, little, weak-spirited girl! Could you not trust Cousin Deborah?" Lucy's tears flowed fast once more, but they were very different tears.