“Trude—Oh, Trude!”
Trude held her long and close, stroking the shorn head, murmuring soothing words. Finally Sidney wriggled from her.
“Have you come to take me home? But how could they send for you so quickly? How long have I been asleep? Oh, Lavender—is he—is he—”
“One question at a time, Sid. Lavender is better. He’ll be all right, the doctor says, after a good rest. Yes, I think I’d better take you home. No, they did not send for me.” Briefly, as though now that earlier concern was of little consequence, Trude told of the sketch that had so bewildered and alarmed her.
“I couldn’t understand,” she finished.
“I couldn’t either, at first. You see the boarder—the man who has boarded here so long and is dreadfully fond of Aunt Achsa wrote that letter to me and wrote it nice so as to please her, and, at first—but, oh, Trude, Aunt Achsa is wonderful and so is Lavender, really, truly, even though they are poor—”
“Hush, Sidney.” Trude’s eyes darkened with feeling. “You do not have to tell me that. I have learned that in only a few hours. Oh, I have seen straight into souls—those kind men on the street, as concerned as though you belonged to them, and here—Aunt Achsa with her great courage and her love. And that Miss Vine—they’re so simple—and so fine—it made me ashamed of my silly standards, my fears.”
“And Lavender is best of all—”
Now quick tears shone like stars in Trude Romley’s eyes. She reached out her hands and caught Sidney’s.
“Oh, Lavender—when I think what he did I—I—” She could not finish, but Sidney understood the gratitude that was in her heart. She leaned her face against Trude’s shoulder with a long sigh.