Part 26 (1/2)
Be strong, oh, Heart of mine, Look towards the light!
--ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
The next morning Judy was down specially early to breakfast.
Her cheeks were slightly more flushed than usual, and her eyes, to anyone who watched them closely, had a determined, almost hard, expression in them. Hilda, however, was too much occupied with her own sad thoughts to take any special notice of the child.
”You look well, Judy,” she said, giving a quick glance at her. ”Now come to breakfast, dear, I've a good deal to do afterward.”
”Are you going out, Hilda?” asked Judy.
”No, I'm going to be busy all the morning over my accounts; they've got into the most disgraceful muddle, and I want to put them straight. I shall be in the drawing room, for I keep all my household books in the davenport there. I mean to give you a holiday, Judy, but perhaps you won't mind reading some of your history to yourself, and doing a few sums this morning.”
”Of course not,” said Judy brightly. ”Shall I make you some toast, Hilda? This in the toast-rack is so soft and flabby--do let me, Hilda.”
”If you like, dear, you may. It is lucky there is a fire, but I must tell cook to discontinue them, the weather is getting so warm.”
Judy was an adept at making toast, and it was an old fas.h.i.+on at the Rectory that Hilda's toast should be made by her, on those blissful red-letter days when the elder sister had tea with the little ones in the nursery.
Judy wondered as she delicately browned that toast, and scorched her own little cheeks, if Hilda would remember the old days, and the toast which she used to make her; but Mrs. Quentyns seemed to be in a sort of brown study that morning, and thanked the child absently when the crisp hot toast was put on her plate.
”Jasper will be home quite early to-day, won't he, Hilda?” inquired Judy.
”I don't know, Judy--yes, I suppose so.”
”I'm sure he'll be home early,” repeated Judy with confidence; ”perhaps he'll take you to the play to-night, and perhaps you'll be awfully happy.”
”Oh, don't talk about it, Judy,” said Hilda, in a weary voice; ”we must all make up our minds to face the fact that there's a great deal _more_ than mere happiness in the world. What is happiness? It's only a small part of life.”
”I don't think it is going to be a small part of your life, Hilda; but now I'm not going to idle you any more, for you want to get to your accounts.”
Judy ran out of the room. As she was going slowly upstairs, she paused once to say softly to herself:
”It's all happening beautifully; I ought to be glad. Of course I am glad. '_He that taketh not up his cross._' I'm glad that text keeps running in my head, it makes me so nice and strong.”
Susan was doing out Judy's room when the little girl ran into it. Judy was fond of Susan, and Susan of her, and the girl stopped her work now to listen to the child's eager words.
”Susan, do you think Mrs. Quentyns would let you come out with me for a little this morning, for about an hour or an hour and a half?”
”Well, miss,” said Susan, ”it aint Monday, which is the day to get ready for the laundry, nor yet Wednesday, when I turns out the drawing room, nor Friday, which is silver day--there's nothing special for Thursday; I should think I could go with you, Miss Judy, and it will be a treat to take you about. Is it Mme. Tussand's you has a hankerin' for, Miss?”
”No, no, Susan, I'm not going to any exhibition; it's a secret--I'll tell you when we're out.”
”The Dore Gallery, perhaps?” suggested Susan.
”No, it's nothing of that sort; I'll tell you when we're out.”
”Very well, miss, I'm proud to be at your service whatever it is.”
”I'll run down now and ask my sister if you may come with me, Susan.”