Hilda read the letter now with very different feelings; somehow or other all the rose light had gone out of it. She was a very inexperienced girl as far as money matters were concerned. Until to-day money seemed to have little part or lot in her life; it had never stirred her nature to its depths, it had kindly supplied her with necessities and luxuries; it had gilded everything, but she had never known where the gilt came from. When she engaged herself to Jasper, he told her that, for the present at least, he was a comparatively poor man; he had three hundred a year of his own. This he assured her was a mere bagatelle, but as he was almost certain to earn as much more in his profession, and as Hilda had money, he thought they might marry if she did not mind living very prudently. Of course Hilda did not mind—she knew nothing at all of the money part. The whole thing meant love and poetry to her, and she disliked the word money coming into it.
To-day, however, things looked different. For the first time she got a glimpse of Tragedy. How mean of it, how horrible of it to come in this guise! She pressed her hand to her forehead, and wondered what her lover could mean when he talked of rates and taxes, and asked her to decide between a flat and a house.
"I don't know what to say," she murmured to herself. "Perhaps we shall not be married at all at present. Perhaps Jasper will say we can't afford it. Perhaps I ought to answer his question about the flat—but I don't know what to say. I thought we might have had a cottage somewhere in one of the suburbs—with a little garden, and that I might have kept fowls, and have had heaps and heaps of flowers. Surely fowls would be economical, but I am sure I can't say. I really don't know anything whatever about the matter."
"Why are you talking in that funny way half-aloud to yourself, Hilda?" asked a little voice with a sad inflection in it.
Hilda slightly turned her head and saw that Judy had softly opened the door of her bedroom, and was standing in the entrance.
Judy had an uncertain manner about her which was rather new to her character, and her face had a somewhat haggard look, unnatural and not pleasant to see in so young a child.
"Oh, pet, is that you?" said Hilda. "Come and give me a kiss—I am just longing for you—you're the person of all others to consult. Come along and sit down by me. Now, now—you don't want to strangle me, do you?"
For Judy had rushed upon her sister like a little whirlwind, her strong childish arms were flung with almost ferocious tightness round Hilda's neck, the skirt of her short frock had swept Jasper's letter to the floor, and even upset an ink-pot in its voluminous sweep.
"Oh, oh!" said Hilda, "I must wipe up this mess. There, Judy, keep back for a moment; it will get upon the carpet, and spoil it if we are not as quick as possible. Hand me that sheet of blotting-paper, dear. There now, that is better—I have stopped the stream from descending too far. Why, Judith, my dear, you have tears in your eyes. You don't suppose I care about the ink being spilt when I get a hug like that from you."
"I wasn't crying about the ink," said Judy; "what's ink! The tears came because I am so joyful."