"I know something better than cream for Judy—don't I, my pet?" said Hilda, turning to her little sister with her bright smile.
"And so do I," replied Judy. "Oh, Hilda, to think of living with you in your own little house! Oh, Hilda, I'm too happy—I am so happy that my heart aches. It aches with pleasure."
Judy's thin arms were flung round her sister's neck. Her lips pressed Hilda's soft young cheek, her eyes looked into Hilda's. It seemed to them both at that moment that soul answered to soul.
"Now what nonsense this is," said Aunt Marjorie in her fussy tones. "Judy, I hope Hilda is not going to encourage you in silly sentimental talk of that kind. You say your heart aches with pleasure. Really, my dear, I have no patience to listen to you. I should like to know what a child like you knows about heart-aches—you, who have been brought up in what I may call the very lap of luxury. For, Hilda, I have made it the object of my life ever since poverty came to us, to prevent even the slightest shadow of its wings touching the children. They have had their excellent governess, and their warm schoolroom and snug bedroom. I cut down one of my own fur cloaks to give them really nice winter jackets, and I took special care that the schoolroom table should be as liberal as ever. It is impossible, therefore, for me to understand Judy's silly words about her heart aching."
Aunt Marjorie left the room, and Judy still softly rubbed her cheek against Hilda's.
"But my heart did ache," she said after a pause—"it aches with joy now, and it did ache—oh, it kept crying, it felt starved without you, Hilda."
"I understand—yes, I understand," replied Hilda.
"You don't mind what Aunt Marjorie says then?"
"Not about you, my own little love."
"Hilda, I did really try very, very hard not to fret."