"Well, Miss Judy, well—anything to please you, dearie—it all depends."
"What does it depend on?"
"Taken from the female point of view, it depends on the sort the young man is; but, my darling, it's many and many a long day before you need worrit yourself with such matters."
"But I want to know," persisted Judy. "People do get married. You were married twice yourself, Sutton; you told me so once."
"So I was dear, and both my wedding gowns are in a trunk upstairs. My first was a figured sateen, a buff-colored ground with red flowers thrown over it. My second was a gray poplin. I was supposed to do very well with my second marriage, Miss Judy."
"Then you were twice engaged, and twice married," said Judy. "I don't want to hear about the wedding gowns, Sutton. I am rather in a hurry. I want you to tell me about the other things. What were they like—the being engaged, and the being married? Was the person fickle, and did he break his promise?"
For some reason or other Mrs. Sutton's face became so deeply flushed that she looked quite angry.
"I'll tell you what it is, Miss Judy," she said, "someone is putting thoughts into your head what oughtn't to do it. You are a motherless child, and there's someone filling your head with arrant nonsense. What do you know about engagements and—and disappointments, and dreams what proves but early mists of the morning? what do you know of fickleness and broken promises? There, child, you won't get any of that bad sort of knowledge out of me. Now you run away, dearie. There's someone been talking about what they oughtn't to, and you has no call to listen, my pet. There's some weddings happy, and there's some that aint, and that's all I can say. Run away now, Miss Judy."