"It doesn't tell her a bit what I think, nor what I feel," murmured the poor child. "But it's best for her just to suppose that I want to go home. She'll be happy all the sooner if she thinks that."
Susan was rather elated at escaping housework, and at being allowed to go out so early in the morning. She was especially fond of Judy, and would do anything in the world for her. Now, therefore, principally on Judy's account, but also in the hope that the baker might happen to see her as she passed his shop, she put on her very smartest hat and her very best jacket, and patiently waited in the front hall for Judy's appearance.
Hilda came out of the drawing room to see the two as they went off.
"You had better take an omnibus, and get out at Kensington Gardens," she said to the maid. "I shall expect you back in time to get lunch ready, Susan. Judy pet, give me a kiss before you go."
Judy had lost her roses now, her face was pale, and there were dark shadows under her big eyes. Her little voice, however, had a very stout, determined tone about it.
"Good-by, Hilda," she said; "one kiss—two, three kisses, Hilda; it is good of you to let us out,—and we are going to be so jolly. Good-by, darling Hilda."
"Good-by, Judy," said Hilda.
She kissed the child, but in a pre-occupied manner—the cloud which weighed on her heart was oppressing her, and dulling her usually keen perceptions where Judy was concerned.
"It's all the better," thought the little girl, "it's easier to say good-by when she's not extra loving."
Hilda went back to her accounts, and Judy and Susan walked down the terrace, and turning the corner were lost to view.