“Did you hear us?” asked Judy, her astonishment almost overcoming her alarm. “Where were you standing? I didn’t see you.”
“I daresay not. There’s many things besides what you see, my dear. For instance, you don’t see why Betsy should think it would be a fine thing to be you, and perhaps Betsy doesn’t see why you should think it would be a fine thing to be in her place instead of in your own.”
Judy’s eyes opened wider and wider. “Did you hear all that?” she exclaimed.
The old woman smiled.
“So you really would like to be Betsy for a change?” she said.
“Not exactly for a change,” answered Judy. “It isn’t that I am tired of being myself, but I am sure no other little girl in the world has so many troubles; that is why I would rather be Betsy. You have no idea what troubles I have,” she went on, “and I can never do anything I like. It’s always ‘Miss Judy, you must,’ or ‘Miss Judy, you mustn’t,’ all day long. And if ever I am merry for a little, then nurse tells me I shall wake baby. O! he is such a cross baby!”
“And do you think Betsy’s baby brothers and sisters are never cross?” inquired the old woman.
“O no, I daresay they are; but then she’s allowed to scold them and punish them, and I may never say anything, however tiresome the little ones are. If I might put baby in the corner when he is naughty, I would soon cure him. But I may never do anything I want; it’s too bad.”
“Poor thing, poor thing! it is too bad, a great deal too bad. I do feel for you,” said the old woman.
But when Judy looked up at her there was a queer twinkle in her eyes, which made her by no means sure whether she was laughing at her or not. The little girl felt more than half inclined to be affronted, but before she had time to decide the point, the old woman interrupted her.