"Something Rivers has said, my love. I'll tell you presently. Capital fellow he is; if I get this brief I shall be in tremendous luck."
Hilda opened Aunt Marjorie's letter and began to read. The old lady was a somewhat rambling correspondent. Her letters were always closely written and voluminous. Hilda had to strain her young eyes to decipher all the sentences.
"I must say I dislike poverty [wrote Aunt Marjorie]; you are well out of it, Hilda. It is my private conviction that your father has absolutely forgotten that his income has jumped down in a single day from three thousand three hundred and fifty pounds a year to the three hundred and fifty without the odd thousands; he goes on just as he has always done, and is perfectly happy. Dean Sharp sent him his last book a week ago, and he has done nothing but read it and talk of it ever since—his conversation in consequence is most tiresome. I miss you awfully, my love. I never could stand theology, even when I was surrounded by comforts, and now when I have to stint the fires and suffer from cold feet, you may imagine how unpleasant it is to me. My dear Hilda, I am afraid I shall not be able to keep Miss Mills, she seems to get sillier every day; it is my private conviction that she has a love affair on, but she's as mum as possible about it. Poor Sutton cried in a most heartrending way when she left; she said when leaving, 'I'll never get another mistress like you, ma'am, for you never interfere, even to the clearing of the jellies.' I am glad she appreciates me, I didn't think she did while she was living with us. The new cook can't attempt anything in the way of soup, so I have given it up for dinner; but your father never appears to miss it. The garden is looking horrible, so many weeds about. The Anstruthers have all gone up to London—taken a house for the season at an enormous price. How those people do squander money; may they never know what it is for it to take to itself wings!
"By the way, Judy has not been well; she caught cold or something the day of your wedding, and was laid up with a nasty little feverish attack and cough. We had to send for Dr. Harvey, who said she had a chill, and was a good deal run down. She's up again now, but looks like a ghost with her big eyes. She certainly is a most peculiar child—I don't pretend to understand her. She crept into the room a minute ago, and I told her I was writing to you, and asked her if she had any message. She got pink all over just as if she were going to cry, and then said:
"'Tell Hilda that I am not fretting a bit, that I am as happy as possible. Give her my dear love and heaps of kisses' (my dear Hilda, you must take them for granted, for I am not going to put crosses all over the letter).
"Then she ran out of the room as if she had nothing further to say—really a most queer child. Babs is a little treasure and the comfort of my life.
"Your affectionate old Aunt,
"Marjorie."
"Jasper!" said Hilda, in a choked sort of voice. "Jasper!"
"What is it, my darling? Why, how queer you look, your face is quite white!"