Judith slipped away. She was never quite definite how she got there, but she found herself presently in the old black dory that was drawn up on the beach. It was the best place to think, and Judith wanted to think. She wanted air enough and room enough to think in—this Wonderful Thing took up so much room! It was so big—so wonderful!
She sat a long time with her brown chin in her brown palms, her eyes on the splendid expanse of shining, undulating sea before her. It reached ’way across to him—to that tender doctor who made little children walk! If one were to cross it—she and Blossom in the old black dory—and to find him somewhere over across there and say to him—if one were to hold out little Blossom and say—“Here’s Blossom; oh, please teach her little legs to walk!”—if one were to do that—
Judith sunk her brown chin deeper into the little scoop of her brown, hard palms. Her eyes were beginning to shine. She began to rock herself back and forth and to hum a little song of joy, as if already it had happened. The fancy took her that it had happened—that when she went up the beach, home, she would come on Blossom walking to meet her! “See me!” Blossom would call out gayly.
The fancy faded by and by, as did all Judith’s dreams. And Judith went plodding home alone—no one came walking to meet her. But there was hope in her heart. How it could ever be, she did not know—she had not had time to get to that yet—but somehow it would be. It should be!
“I won’t tell mother—I’ll tell Uncle Jem,” she decided. “Mother must not be worried—she must be surprised!” Judith had decided that. Some day, some way, Blossom must walk in on the worn, weary little mother and surprise her.
“I’ll ask Uncle Jem how,” Judith nodded, as she went. Uncle Jem was the old bed-ridden fisherman that Judith loved and trusted and consulted. She had always consulted Uncle Jem. He lived with Jem Three in a tiny, weather-worn cabin near the Lynns. Jem Three was Judith’s age—Jem Two was dead.
“I’ll go over to-night after supper,” Judith said.
Uncle Jem lay in the cool, salt twilight, listening, as he always did, to the sound of the waves. It was his great comfort. He wouldn’t swop his “pa’r o’ ears,” he said, for a mint o’ money—no, sir! Give him them ears—Uncle Jem had never been to school—an’ he’d make out without legs nor arms nor head! That was Uncle Jem’s favorite joke.
“Judy! I hear ye stompin’ round out there. I’m layin’ low fur ye!” the cheerful voice called, as Judith entered the little cabin.
“Is Jem Three here?” demanded Judith.