“That will not,” laughed Judith, “Oh, you queer boy.”
“Then may I have some bread and butter?” he asked, rising. “I think it will turn me crazy if it caves in again.”
“Aunt Rody is in the kitchen; tell her your story and ask her for the bread,” replied Aunt Affy.
Judith trembled so that she could scarcely stand; she dared not follow Joe; she dared not stay where she was: Aunt Rody herself made a way of escape for her by coming to the kitchen door with a slice of graham bread in her hand.
“Here, Joe: I heard your story. Here’s the bread. I hope you’ll behave yourself after this. Now, Judith, you see the reason I keep you from hunting eggs. You might be dead in that cistern this moment.”
“You couldn’t pull yourself up as I did,” remarked Joe, giving Aunt Rody the two eggs as she handed him the graham bread.
Judith drew a long breath of relief. Now she need never tell; Joe would not be punished.
That evening at family prayer Cephas read about the institution of the Lord’s Supper and the betrayal of Christ: Joe shuffled his feet until a look from Aunt Rody quieted him; Judith looked as if she were listening, but she did not catch the meaning of a single sentence until something arrested her rapid, remorseful thinking: “And when they had kindled a fire in the midst of the hall, and were set down together, Peter sat down among them. But a certain maid beheld him as he sat by the fire, and earnestly looking upon him, and said, This man was also with him. And he denied him, saying: Woman I know him not.”
Peter was afraid. He was afraid to tell that woman. The small disciple looked at the old lady sitting in her high straight-backed chair, with her long hands so still in her lap, her lips tight shut, her eyes roving from Joe to Judith, and then to Joe, then the dreadful round again, and she thought the woman that frightened Peter must have been like Aunt Rody.
She knew how afraid Peter was.