—Shakespeare.
“Judith, would you like to go up to Lottie’s room for an hour?”
Judith’s mother was still sitting before the grate with her feet lifted to the fender; the tall figure of Donald Mackenzie stood behind the wheel chair, bending, with his folded arms upon the back of the chair.
“Yes, mother,” replied the voice from the kitchen, a busy, pre-occupied voice.
Don had wiped the dishes for her, brought up coal, taken down ashes, and declared that his three chops were the finest he had ever eaten.
“Lottie and her books just went up,” said Judith standing in the door-way, and untying her kitchen apron. “Don, will you call me when you go?”
“Yes, Bluebird; I can stay but an hour; I have to call for Miss Marion; she has gone to a King’s Daughters’ meeting, and I told her I would stop on my way home; I have to pass the house,” he explained in reply to an impatient movement in the wheel chair. Judith went out softly and ran lightly up the stairway.
“Aunt Hilda,” began the penitent voice above Aunt Hilda’s head, “I have come to confess.”
“Don, I wish I had warned you.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked, miserably.