"You're a little darling," said Aunt Marjorie, kissing her again.
"There's Judy going across the garden," said Babs. "Look at her, she has her shoulders hunched up to her ears. She's not a bit of good; she won't play with me nor nothing."
"That child doesn't look at all well," said Aunt Marjorie.
She started to her feet, putting Babs on the floor. A new anxiety and a new interest absorbed her mind.
"Judy, Judy," she called; "come here, child. I have noticed for the last week," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, "that Judy has black lines under her eyes, and a dragged sort of look about her. What can it mean?"
"She cries such a lot," said Babs in her untroubled voice. "I hear her when she's in bed at night. I thought she had she-cups, but it wasn't, it was sobs."
"She-cups—what do you mean, child? Judy, come here, darling."
"She-cups," repeated Babs. "Some people call them he-cups; but I don't when a girl has them."
Judy came slowly up to the window.
"Where were you going, my pet?" asked Aunt Marjorie.