"I know," continued Cousin Deborah, "that the way in which you have hitherto been brought up has made you timid and reserved. You have always been so severely treated for every little fault and mishap, that you have fallen into the habit of concealing your faults, and even of lying to hide them. Now this is a very sad habit, and one of which you must take great pains to break yourself. It is cowardice, and leads to a great deal of meanness and wickedness." "Yes, I know," said Lucy. "It made me tell lies about the thimble; and I did use to tell a great many to Aunt Bernard, I know; but, oh, Cousin Debby, if you knew how she used to punish me for the least little thing! She would not let me have one bit of drink with my meals for a whole week once, because I spilled some milk on my slip; and it was her speaking sharply to me that made me spill it, too. Oh, it did seem as if I should choke just eating dry crust for my breakfast and supper!" * * A fact. "I know all that, Lucy, and that has been an excuse for you heretofore; but it will be so no longer. I want you to feel, my child, how mean and wicked it is to tell a lie, whether it is to hide a fault or to escape punishment; and I wish you to have enough confidence in me to come to me in all your troubles great and small. Will you not try to do this?" "Yes, Cousin Debby." Lucy Was silent for a few minutes, leaning on her cousin's breast. Then she said, softly, "Cousin!" "Well, my love!" "I should like to write out that piece of my father's letter for Aunt Bernard." "You shall do so, Lucy. Do you not feel now that you can add some words of your own, telling poor Aunt Bernard that you forgive her for your own part?" "Yes, Cousin Debby. I feel differently now. But, cousin, I don't think it would be true for me to say that I loved Aunt Bernard." "You need not say so; but Lucy, can you not think of something for which you ought to beg Aunt Bernard's pardon? Did you not do some wrong things?" "Yes, Cousin Debby, I know I did. What shall I write?" "I shall not tell you what to say, Lucy. You shall write just what you think and feel, and show it to me afterwards, if you please. Here is paper, pens, and ink in my cabinet. You may sit down here and write, while I put away my habit and my other things." Lucy was just sitting down to write, when, glancing out of a side-window, she exclaimed: "Oh, Cousin Debby, here comes Will Mattison galloping up the avenue as hard as he can pelt, and waving his hat. And all the church bells are ringing. Oh, what has happened?" "I presume there is some news come from the war," said Cousin Debby. "Let us go down and see. Do not tremble so, my dearest child, but look up to your heavenly Father for strength."