“Let never day or night unhallowed pass;
But still remember what the Lord hath done.”
—Shakespeare.
“Judith, would you like to go up to Lottie’s room for an hour?”
Judith’s mother was still sitting before the grate with her feet
lifted to the fender; the tall figure of Donald Mackenzie stood behind
the wheel chair, bending, with his folded arms upon the back of the
chair.
“Yes, mother,” replied the voice from the kitchen, a busy,
pre-occupied voice.
Don had wiped the dishes for her, brought up coal, taken down ashes,
and declared that his three chops were the finest he had ever eaten.
“Lottie and her books just went up,” said Judith standing in the
door-way, and untying her kitchen apron. “Don, will you call me when
you go?”
“Yes, Bluebird; I can stay but an hour; I have to call for Miss
Marion; she has gone to a King’s Daughters’ meeting, and I told her I
would stop on my way home; I have to pass the house,” he explained in
reply to an impatient movement in the wheel chair. Judith went out
softly and ran lightly up the stairway.
“Aunt Hilda,” began the penitent voice above Aunt Hilda’s head, “I
have come to confess.”
“Don, I wish I had warned you.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked, miserably.
“Because I thought you had common sense.”
“It is a case of common sense.”
Judith’s fingers tapped lightly on the third story door.
“Come in,” called a girlish voice.
“Are you studying? May I stay and study too?”
“You are always ahead of me,” grumbled Lottie.
“Because I take longer lessons, and mother has no one else to teach.
But she was tired to-day, and I couldn’t ask her about that dreadful
thing in square root. Did you find out?”
“Yes, and it’s as easy as mud.”
Both girls laughed.
“Bensalem mud isn’t easy; you think you are going through to China
every spring when the roads are bad.”
Judith had brought her pencil and pad; for half an hour the girls put
their heads together over square root; then Lottie Kindare threw her
book across the small room to the bed.
“Judith, I know something new to tell you; Grace Marvin told me to-day
at recess, and once it came true. I’ll show you.”
On the lowest shelf of the little book-case Lottie found her Bible; it
was dusty, but she did not notice that.
With their chairs very near together, the Bible in Lottie’s lap, the
girls sat silent a moment; Judith’s luminous eyes were filled with
expectation.
“Now wish for what you want most,” commanded Lottie, impressively.
“I wish most of all for mother to be strong enough to go to Bensalem
with Aunt Affy when she comes next week.”
Lottie colored and looked uncomfortable; this evening before she came
up stairs, her mother had told her that the doctor had stopped down
stairs to say that Mrs. Mackenzie must be urged to make no effort to
go into the country; it was too late.
“Not that; something else,” said Lottie, impatiently, “not such a
serious thing.”
“But I want that _most_,” said Judith, piteously.
“Then choose what you want second.”
“Then I want second to go to boarding-school.”
“That’s good,” exclaimed Lottie relieved, “now, shut your eyes and
open the Bible and put your finger down, and if it touches: ‘_And it
came to pass_,’ it _will_ come to pass.”
“How queer,” said Judith delighted, “what an easy way to find out
things. I wish I had known it before.”
“So do I, for then I might have known that I _couldn’t_ have had
a navy blue silk for Christmas; and I hoped for it until the very
day.”
Without any misgiving, Judith closed her eyes and opened the Bible;
her heart beat fast, her fingers trembled; she dared not open her eyes
and see.
“No, you haven’t your wish,” said Lottie’s disappointed voice; “it
reads: ‘And a cubit on one side, and a cubit on the other side’—that’s
dreadful and horrid; I’m so sorry, Ju.”
So was Judith; sorry and frightened.
“Now, I’ll try. I wish for a gold chain like Grace Marvin’s,” she
said, bravely. Judith looked frightened; but what was there to be
afraid of? It was not like fortune-telling; it was the _Bible_.
Judith watched her nervously; she was disappointed if it said in the
Bible that she could never go to boarding-school; but, oh, how glad
she was that she had not asked the Bible if her mother would ever be
strong enough to go to Bensalem. She could not have borne nothing but
a cubit about that. She would hate a “cubit” after this.
“There!” cried Lottie jubilantly, “I have it. See.”
Over the fine print near Lottie’s finger, Judith bent and read:
“_And it came to pass_.”
“Isn’t that splendid?” said Lottie, “but I wish you had got it. Do you
want to try again?”
“No,” hesitated Judith, “it frightens me, and I’m afraid it’s wicked.”
“Wicked,” laughed Lottie, “how can it be wicked?”
“I cannot explain how—but I’m sure mother would not like it.”
“But your mother is so particular,” explained Lottie, “everybody
isn’t. She thinks there’s a right and wrong to everything.”
“But _isn’t_ there?” persisted Judith.
“No,” contended Lottie boldly, but with a fear at her heart; “there
isn’t about this. This is right.”
“I hope it is,” said Judith, brightening.
“We tried it at noon recess one day, and John Kenney came and looked
on. He didn’t say what he thought.”
“Who is John Kenney?”
“The brightest and handsomest boy in the High School. He’s up head in
Latin and everything. He was at my New Year’s Eve party. Don’t you
remember? He sang college songs.”
“He’s the big boy that found a chair for me, and gave me ice cream the
second time. I shall always remember _him_,” said Judith,
fervently. “I did not know his name; when I think about him, I call
him John. John is my favorite name for a man; it has a strong sound, a
generous sound, and I like the color of it.”
“The _color_,” repeated Lottie, amazed.
“Don’t names have color and sound to you?” asked Judith, surprised.
“John is the deepest crimson to me, a glowing crimson. John belongs to
self-sacrifice and generous deeds. John is a hero and a saint.”
Lottie laughed noisily. Judith was the queerest girl. Her
_things_ were always getting mixed up with _thoughts_.
Lottie did not care for thoughts. School, dress, parties,
Sunday-school, summer vacations, John Kenney, dusting and making cake,
jolly times with her father, and home times and making calls with her
mother, were only “things” to this girl of fifteen; if there were
“thoughts” in them, she missed the thoughts. She was daring and
handsome; Judith admired her because she was so different from
herself.
“I don’t believe my mother would care,” said Lottie, honestly, as she
laid her Bible in its place upon her book-shelf.
“But your mother is different,” pleaded Judith.
“Yes, my mother is well; I suppose that makes the difference.”
With a sigh over her disappointment, for, somehow, she thought the
Bible could not be wrong, Judith went back to pad and pencil and
another hard example in square root.
“Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home,” chanted Don’s voice in the hall
below.
“He has a different name for you every time,” said Lottie. “Don’t tell
your mother if it will worry her.”
“I never tell her things that worry her,” replied Judith; “I’ve been
waiting three months to tell her that I have burnt a hole in the front
of my red cashmere and do not know how to mend it. When I go to
Sunday-school she sees me with my coat on, and after Sunday-school I
hurry and put on a white apron.”
With her arithmetic and pad, and a very grave face, Judith hastened
down stairs.
“Your mother is full of hope about Bensalem,” comforted cousin Don; “I
have said good-bye, for I expect to sail for Genoa on Saturday. She
gave me your photograph to take with me. I will write to you at
Bensalem; and if anybody ever hurts you, write to me quick and I’ll
come home and slay them with my little hatchet.”
“Are you going—so soon?” she asked, in an unchildish way; “what will
mother do without you?”
“She will have you and Aunt Affy. I wasn’t going so soon, but I found
it is better. Kiss your cousin Don.”
“Shall you stay _long_?”
“Long enough to go to London to buy me a wife,” he laughed; “kiss your
cousin Don.”
She kissed her cousin Don with eyes so filled with tears that she did
not see the tears in his eyes. The street door fastened itself behind
him; in the quiet street she heard his quick step on the pavement.
Her mother was sitting in the firelight with her head resting upon her
hand.
“Mother, Don’s _gone_,” burst out Judith.
“Yes, for a while. He will never forget his little cousin.”
“Genoa is a long way off.”
“Only a few days’ travel. It is good for him to go. He is engaged to
do some work on a paper, and he has always desired to see the world
afoot. It is good for him,” Don’s Aunt Hilda repeated.
“But it isn’t good for us, mother.”
“I hope it is not bad for us.—But I would be glad for him not to
go—just yet,” she sighed.
“Will Miss Marion, his brown girl, like it?” inquired Judith,
unexpectedly.
“She is not—why do you say that?”
“I don’t know, I saw her; I shouldn’t _think_ he would like to go
and leave us all,” said Don’s little cousin, chokingly, keeping back
the tears.
“He has a heartache to-night, poor boy. Now, little nurse, mother’s
tired. We will have prayer and go early to bed.”