‘O dear! who now has cut my pincushion? it was you did it, Tom.’ ‘No, indeed I did not,’ replied he. ‘Then it was you, Mary.’ ‘No, I know nothing of it,’ answered she. ‘Then it was you, Hetty.’ ‘That I am sure it was not,’ said she; ‘I am sure, I am certain it was not me; I am positive it was not.’ ‘Ah,’ replied the other, ‘I dare say it was.’ ‘Yes, I think it is most likely,’ said Mary. ‘And so do I too,’ said Tom. ‘And pray why do you all think so?’ inquired Hetty, in an angry tone. ‘Because,’ said the owner of the pincushion, ‘you are the only one who ever tells fibs; you told a story, you know, about the fruit; you told a story too about the currant jelly; and about putting your fingers in the butter, at breakfast; and therefore there is a very great reason why we should suspect you more than anybody else.’ ‘But I am sure,’ said she, bursting into tears, ‘I am very sure I have not meddled with it.’ ‘I do not at all know that,’ replied the other, ‘and I do think it was you; for I am certain if any one else had done it they would not deny it; and it could not come into this condition by itself, somebody must have done it; and I dare say it was you; so say no more about it.’ Here the dispute was interrupted by somebody calling them out of the room; and I could not help making some reflections on what had passed. How dreadful a crime, thought I, is lying and falsity; to what sad mortifications does it subject the person who is ever wicked enough to commit it; and how does it expose them to the contempt of everyone, and make them to be suspected of faults they are even perfectly free from. Little Hetty now is innocent, with respect to the pincushion with which her sister charges her, as any of the others; yet, because she has before forfeited her honour, she can gain no credit: no one believes what she says, she is thought to be guilty of the double fault of spoiling the pincushion, and what is still worse, of lying to conceal it; whilst the other children are at once believed, and their words depended upon.