"Why do you do it so softly?" said Babs, not troubling herself to turn her face, but still keeping her stout back to her sister.
"Do what so softly?" asked Judy.
"Those groans to yourself. Aunt Marjorie won't believe that you ever groan, and I know you do. She said you was as happy as the day is long, and I said you wasn't. You know you do sob at night, or you have she-cups or something."
"Look here," said Judy, "it's very, very, very unkind of you, Babs, to tell Aunt Marjorie what I do at night. I didn't think you'd be so awfully mean. I am ill now, and Aunt Maggie would do anything for me, and I'll ask her to put you to sleep in Miss Mills' room, if ever you tell what I do at night again."
"I'll never tell if you don't wish me to," said Babs, in her easy tones. "You may sob so that you may be heard down in the drawing room and I won't tell. Look here, Judy, I have found your old knife."
"What old knife?"
"The one you saved that animal with last autumn, don't you remember?"
"Oh, yes, yes—the dear little earwig. Do let me see the knife, Babs; I thought I had lost it."
"No, it was in the back of your cabinet, just under all the peacock's feathers. Wasn't the earwig glad when you saved her?"
"Yes," said Judy, smiling, "didn't she run home fast to her family? She was sticking in the wood and couldn't get out, poor darling, but my dear little knife cut the wood away and then she ran home. Oh, didn't she go fast!"