“Judy, are you awake?”
Mother stood over the bed in her scant white nightgown. When Judith answered, she sat down beside her and felt for one of her calloused, oar-toughened little hands.
“Judy, would it be—be all right to use some of the mackerel-money? Mother’s got to go away for a little while—just a little while, Judy. Jemmy says he talked with a man in the city who would give me some work to do in his kitchen for a little while. But—why, I thought I’d take Blossom, Judy, and of course that would mean spending some money—”
“Blossom!”
Judith sat straight up in bed, her eyes like glints of light in the darkness.
“Why, yes, dear; she’s never been away from the sea in her little life. You think of that, Judy! You’ve been away twice. Blossom never saw a steam-car nor a city, nor—nor heard a hand-organ! Jemmy says he heard three to-day. You think how pleased Blossom would be to hear a hand-organ!”
“Sh!” cautioned Judith, “don’t wake her, mother. If—she’s going, she mustn’t know beforehand.”
Blossom going away! Not Blossom! Not put one hand out, so, in the dark and feel her there beside you—little warm Blossom! Not dress her in the morning and carry her downstairs—you the chariot and she the fine lady! Not hurry home to her from the traps! Judith lay and thought about all that, after mother went away. She put out her hand on the empty side of the bed, where no Blossom was, and tried to get used to the emptiness. She said stern things to herself.
“You, Judy, are you selfish as that?” she said. “To go and begrudge your little Blossom a chance to go away and see things and hear things! Don’t you want her to hear a hand-organ? And perhaps see a monkey? When she’s never been anywhere, nor heard anything, nor seen anything! When mother’s going, anyway, and can take her as well as not—you Judy, you Judy, you Judy! Oh, I cant’t sleep with you, I’m so ashamed of you!”