Hilda moved about the room; she was restless notwithstanding the enforced calm she was putting upon herself. Judy smiled when Hilda spoke, but in her heart certain words kept repeating themselves—they had repeated themselves like a sort of mournful echo in that poor little heart all day.
"All the moments you are away from me are long and wearisome," Hilda had said to her husband. "All the moments."
And then he had said to her:
"You don't find three trumpery. I wish I didn't!"
"So I'm the trumpery," thought Judy to herself. "I'm three. And all the moments while Hilda is away from Jasper are long and wearisome. Poor Hilda! poor darling! how well she hid it all from me; how good, how very good she has been to me; but I'm glad I know. It was a lucky, a very lucky thing that the door of the breakfast room was left slightly open this morning, and so I was able to hear Jasper's words."
"How silent you are, dearest," said Hilda, looking at the child.
"I beg your pardon," said Judy, jumping up. "I was thinking."
"Think aloud then, sweet. Let me share your pretty thoughts."
"But they are not pretty, Hilda; and I think I'd rather no one shared them. Now let us talk about old times—about the dear old times before there was a Jasper."
"Judy," said Hilda, "there is just one thing I should like to say to you. Even if it gives you pain, I ought to remind you, my darling, that Jasper is my husband; that I love him. Oh! Judy, Judy, my heart aches with love to him. My heart aches because I love my husband so much."