about midnight lucy was roused by a loud clap of thunder. the rain was dashing in through the open window, and the waning lamp seemed but a spark amid the almost incessant flashes of lightning. the poor child trembled with fear, she dared not close the window, and yet the flying drops almost reached her little bed. she lay in an agony of terror, thinking that every moment might be her last. the idea of death was horrible to her: in broad daylight, or when pleasantly occupied, she could forget that she must die; but any sudden fright would bring the solemn truth to her mind and fill her with distress. she had never heard mrs. maxwell or harty speak of being afraid of death, and dared not mention her fear to them, and with her father she was so shy, that he knew very little of what was passing in her mind.
the many faults of which she had been guilty rose to her mind in that awful storm, and she resolved if her life were spared never to do wrong again. after making this resolution she felt a little comforted, and began to think what could be done about the window. she got up and took the lamp to go and call some one to her assistance. but whom should she call? "i will not disturb father," she said to herself, "he was so very tired last night; harty will laugh at me for not doing it myself; and mrs. maxwell—i cannot wake her, she will be so very angry." thus thinking, she stood irresolutely in the hall, starting at every flash of lightning, and afraid either to go forward or return. just then mrs. maxwell opened her door: "what are you about there?" said she, with an astonished look at lucy.
"please, ma'am," said the little girl, who was really glad to see a human face, "will you shut my window?"
"why in the name of wonder did not you shut it yourself?" was the response. lucy was silent, and they entered the room, together. "a pretty piece of work!" said the neat housekeeper, holding tip both hands, as her eyes fell on the soaking carpet. she shut the window hastily, and then said to lucy, "come to my room, for it wouldn't be safe for any one to sleep in that damp place."
lucy was so much afraid of mrs. maxwell, that it was quite a trial to be in the same bod with her; she crept close to the wall, not daring to go to sleep, lest she should be restless, and wake the stern woman at her side. she had many serious thoughts that night, and again and again resolved never more to do wrong.
towards morning she had a pleasant nap, from which she was roused by the morning bell. the sun was shining cheerfully into the room, and the wild storm of the night seemed like a painful dream. she dressed herself carefully, and knelt to say her morning prayer, simple words which she had repeated a thousand times with as little thought as if they had been without sense or meaning. those same words, spoken with earnest sincerity, would have called down a blessing from him who loves to listen when children truly pray. lucy had not forgotten her resolution to do right, but she trusted in her own feeble efforts.
a flush of pleasure lit the usually pale face of the little girl as she saw her father seated at the breakfast-table. she glided into the chair next him, and hardly ate anything, she was so busily occupied in watching his plate, and placing all he might need beside him. harty, meanwhile, showed his delight in his father's company by being more talkative than usual. he had taken a long walk in the fresh morning air, and had many things to tell about what he had seen. what had interested him most was a tall tree, which the recent lightning had struck and splintered from the topmost bough to the root.
lucy shuddered as the conversation brought the painful scene of the night afresh to her mind. it revived mrs. maxwell's memory also, for she turned to lucy with a stern look, and said, "how came you with a light last night?"
lucy blushed, and hastily answered, "i forgot to put it out when i went to bed."
"careless child!" was mrs. maxwell's only reply; but nothing that she could have said would have made lucy more unhappy than the fault she had just committed. what would she not have given, a few moments after, to recall those false words; but they had been spoken, and recorded in the book of god!
during breakfast dr. vale looked anxiously many times at the little girl at his side. there was nothing of cheerful childhood in her appearance; her slender figure was slightly bent, and her small face was pale and thin; her eyes were cast down, and she only occasionally looked up timidly from under the long lashes. her little mouth was closed too tightly, and her whole expression was so sad and subdued, that he was truly troubled about it. it was plain to any one who looked at her that she was not happy.
the doctor dearly loved his children. harty he could understand, but lucy was a mystery to him. he felt certain that she loved him, for she never disobeyed him, and when he was with her she was sure to nestle at his side, and take his hand in hers; but she seldom talked to him, and was growing daily more silent and shy.
"something must be done for her," he inwardly said. his thoughts were interrupted by harty's calling out, "why don't you eat something, lucy? there, let me butter the baby some bread." rude as this remark seemed, it was meant in kindness.
"i don't want anything, harty," answered the sister. "nonsense!" said he; "you are thin enough already: one of the boys asked me the other day, if my sister fed on broom-splinters, for she looked like one;" and the thoughtless boy gave a loud laugh.
it would have been much better for lucy if she could have laughed too, but the tears filled her eyes, and she pettishly replied, "i should not care what i was, if it was only something that could not be laughed at."
at this harty only shouted the louder. "hush, harty," said dr. vale; "for shame, to tease your sister. don't mind him, lucy," and he drew his arm tenderly around her. she laid her head on his lap, and cried bitterly. this kindness from her father would usually have made her quite happy, but now the falsehood she had first uttered made her feel so guilty that she could not bear his gentle manner. she longed to tell him all—her fault of the morning, her terror of the night before—all she had thought and suffered for so many weary days; but her lips would not move, and she only continued to sob. a ring at the bell called the father away, or she might have gained courage to open her heart to him. if lucy could have been more with him, she would have found a friend who would have listened to all her little trials, and given her the truest consolation and advice. it was a source of sorrow to dr. vale that he could be so little with his family, and on this particular morning he felt it with unusual force.
"my little daughter is going on badly," he said to himself, as he entered his chaise, to make his round of visits. "the child is losing all her spirits; she needs a different companion from harty; he is too boisterous, too much of a tease for my little flower. mrs. maxwell is not the person to make a child cheerful; i must have rosa at home." the doctor was prompt to act when he had fixed upon a plan, and that day a letter was written to his eldest daughter, recalling her home. for three years before her mother's death, and since that time, rosa had been under the care of her uncle, the rev. mr. gillette. this gentleman had been obliged by ill-health to give up the exercise of his holy profession, but he did not cease to devote himself to his master's cause. he received a few young ladies into his family, whose education he conducted with all the earnestness of a father. his chief aim was to lead his pupils in the pleasant paths of virtue, and make them to know and love the lord. rosa, as the child of his departed sister, had been peculiarly dear to him; he had spared no pains in moulding her character, and was now beginning to see the fruits of his labour in the daily improvement of his attractive niece. to rosa, then, whom we shall soon know better, the doctor's letter was immediately sent.
lucy, meanwhile, had no idea of the change that was soon to take place in her home. she passed a sad day, for the remembrance of the untruth she had spoken hung about her like a dark cloud. she had been taught that a lie was hateful to god, and sure to bring punishment. mrs. maxwell had made it a part of her duty to hear lucy recite the catechism every sunday. these were trying times to the little girl, for the eye of the questioner was constantly fixed upon her; and if she failed or faltered in one of the long answers, she was sent to her room to study there until she could go through the part without hesitation. mrs. maxwell generally closed the sunday evening exercise by telling lucy how dreadful a thing it was to be a bad child, and that god saw her every moment, and would punish every wicked act she committed. from these conversations lucy would go away in tears, resolved never to do wrong again; but these resolutions soon passed from her mind, until recalled by some fright or by the lesson of the next sunday evening.
she only thought of god as an awful judge, who would take delight in punishing her, and was far happier when she could forget him.
