“Who is John Kenney?”
“The brightest and handsomest boy in the High School. He’s up head in Latin and everything. He was at my New Year’s Eve party. Don’t you remember? He sang college songs.”
“He’s the big boy that found a chair for me, and gave me ice cream the second time. I shall always remember him,” said Judith, fervently. “I did not know his name; when I think about him, I call him John. John is my favorite name for a man; it has a strong sound, a generous sound, and I like the color of it.”
“The color,” repeated Lottie, amazed.
“Don’t names have color and sound to you?” asked Judith, surprised. “John is the deepest crimson to me, a glowing crimson. John belongs to self-sacrifice and generous deeds. John is a hero and a saint.”
Lottie laughed noisily. Judith was the queerest girl. Her things were always getting mixed up with thoughts. Lottie did not care for thoughts. School, dress, parties, Sunday-school, summer vacations, John Kenney, dusting and making cake, jolly times with her father, and home times and making calls with her mother, were only “things” to this girl of fifteen; if there were “thoughts” in them, she missed the thoughts. She was daring and handsome; Judith admired her because she was so different from herself.
“I don’t believe my mother would care,” said Lottie, honestly, as she laid her Bible in its place upon her book-shelf.
“But your mother is different,” pleaded Judith.
“Yes, my mother is well; I suppose that makes the difference.”
With a sigh over her disappointment, for, somehow, she thought the Bible could not be wrong, Judith went back to pad and pencil and another hard example in square root.