"You read that letter in such a perturbed sort of voice that I can scarcely follow its meanings," said Quentyns. "Here, give it to me, and let me see for myself what it is all about. Why will old ladies write such villainous hands? Where does the passage begin, Hilda? Sit down, darling, quiet yourself. Now let me see, here it is—'Judy has not been well——'"
Hilda's hands had shaken with nervousness while she read her aunt's letter aloud, but Quentyns held the sheet of thin paper steadily. As the sentences fell from his lips, his full tones seemed to put new meaning into them—the ghostly terrors died out of Hilda's heart. When her husband laid down the sheet of paper, and turned to her with a triumphant smile, she could not help smiling back at him in return.
"There," he said, "did not I tell you there was nothing wrong with Judy now? What a little goose you are!"
"I suppose I am; and if you really, really think—if you are quite sure that she's all right——"
"Of course, I am absolutely certain; doesn't Aunt Marjorie say so? The fact is, Hilda, you make too great a fuss about that little sister of yours—I feel almost jealous of her."
CHAPTER IX.
STARVED.
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss?
—E. Barrett Browning.
In the first pleasant spring-time of that same year, Mrs. Anstruther, a very gay and fashionable-looking woman of between forty and fifty years of age, turned on a certain morning to her daughter and made a remark: