Part 14 (1/2)

”Can't you hire a little bedstead of some sort?” said Mildred, ”and put it up in that room, and send for the child. What does Judy care about furnished rooms!”

”You think she looks really ill, do you, Mildred?”

”I will be candid with you, Hilda. I did not like her look--she suffers.

It is sad to read suffering in a child's eyes. When I got a peep into Judy's eyes I could see that her soul was drooping for want of nourishment. She is without that particular thing which is essential to her.”

”And what is that?”

”Your love. Do send for her, Hilda. Never mind whether the spare-room is furnished or not.”

Hilda sat and fidgeted with her gold chain. Her face, which had been full of smiles and dimples, was now pale with emotion, her eyes were full of trouble.

”Why are you so irresolute?” asked Mildred impatiently.

”Oh, I--I don't know. I am not quite my own mistress. I--I must think.”

The servant entered the room with a letter on a little salver. Hilda took it up.

”Why, this is from Judy,” she exclaimed. ”Perhaps she's much better already. Do you mind my reading it, Mildred?”

”Read it, certainly. I shall like to know how the dear queer mite is getting on.”

Hilda opened her letter, and, taking out a tiny pink sheet, read a few words written on it.

”MY DEAR HILDA:

”I am writing you a little letter. I hope you are quite well. I don't fret, and I hope you don't. I think of you and never forget you. I give you a kiss for now and for to-night, and for every other night, and a million, thousand kisses for always.

”Your loving ”JUDY.”

”Here are my kisses.”

A whole lot of crosses and round o's followed.

”Here is my tex for us both. 'The Lord wach between me and thee.'

”JUDY.”

Hilda's eyes filled with sudden tears.

”There is something else in the envelope,” she exclaimed. ”I think a scrawl from Aunt Marjorie. I had a volume from her yesterday. I wonder what she wants to write about again.”

”MY DARLING HILDA:

”Now don't be frightened, my dear, but I have something to tell you which I think you ought to know. Our dear little Judy fainted in a rather alarming way in church yesterday. Of course we sent for the doctor, and he says she is very weak, and must stay in bed for a day or two. He says we need not be alarmed, but that her strength is a good deal run down, and that she must have been fretting about something. It just shows how little doctors know, for I _never_ saw the child sweeter, or more gentle, or more easily amused. You know what a troublesome little creature she used to be, always flas.h.i.+ng about and upsetting things, and bringing all kinds of obnoxious insects into the house; but she has been just like a lamb since your wedding, sitting contentedly by my side, looking over her fairy story-books, and a.s.suring me she wasn't fretting in the least about you, and that she was perfectly happy. Babs did say that she heard her crying now and then at night, but I fancy the child must have been mistaken, for Judy certainly would not conceal any trouble from me. I will write to you again about her to-morrow. She directed this envelope to you herself yesterday morning before church, so I am slipping my letter into it. Don't be frightened, dear, we are taking all possible care of her.

”Your affectionate ”AUNT MARJORIE.”

”There,” said Hilda, looking up with a queer, terrified expression in her eyes, ”I knew how it would be. I married Jasper to please myself, and I have killed Judy. Judy's heart is broken. Oh, what shall I do, Milly, what shall I do?”

”Let me read Aunt Marjorie's letter,” said Mildred.