“There, there, you poor child!” soothed Aunt Martha. “Cry all you want to—cry it out!”
“I don’t want to!” sniffled Jacqueline, and lifted her smeary face. “Lend me your hanky, Aunt Martha. Nellie’s got mine.”
She dried her eyes and felt a little better, but she didn’t offer to leave Aunt Martha’s lap, and she was thankful that Aunt Martha still kept hold of her, for the Judge was right there in the big rocker, and his steely eyes, under his drawn brows never wavered from her face.
“Well! Well!” said the Judge. “So you’re Jacqueline, are you, and not Caroline Tait at all?”
“Now, Judge!” Aunt Martha begged. “Don’t get her all upset again.”
“But I’m not sick,” insisted Jacqueline, “and I won’t get upset unless you go calling me crazy like they did in the book.”
“What book?” the Judge questioned.
“The silly old ‘Prince and the Pauper,’” Jacqueline explained. “Judge Blair gave it to me to read on the train, but I never want to see it again as long as I live, because it was the book that did it.”
The Judge leaned back in his chair, and fitted his finger tips together. Over them he watched Jacqueline.
“Go ahead,” he bade, “and tell us all about it.”