“I don’t know; I’m sure I don’t know. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself.”
“But she was your little baby; you are sorry not to have her taken care of.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry; I’m very sorry.”
Affy dropped on the lounge beside Doodles, and was crying like a child; Judith went to her and put both her strong young arms about her and her warm cheek to hers. Cephas cleared his throat, then busied himself burnishing his spectacles with a piece of old chamois.
“Somebody must take care of her, Cephas knows how best,” said the minister with firmness, rubbing the cold, limp fingers.
“Yes, Cephas knows how best,” she quavered “Come here, Cephas, and promise the minister you will always take care of Affy.”
“Go, Aunt Affy,” said Judith, in her strong, young voice, “go and be married while Aunt Rody knows it. She’ll change her mind to-morrow—”
“Oh, I can’t, I can’t,” sobbed Aunt Affy, “with Rody so near dying, how can I? It’s too hurried and dreadful.”
“It’s too beautiful,” said Judith; “that is all she can do for you; do let her do it, dear Aunt Affy.”
“Come, Affy,” said Cephas solemnly, “the Lord’s time has come.”