“Then why didn’t he come and bring her?” asked Judith as soon as she could find her voice.
“The English girl would rather stay in England, or on the Continent; she has no fancy to live in America.”
“I’m afraid—he didn’t want to,” said Judith who could not believe that Cousin Don had failed her.
“He never did a thing he didn’t want to in his life.”
“But he has not been quite fair to keep it from us; I did not think he could do such a thing.”
“He did not keep it all from me,” Roger replied, seriously; “perhaps I should have prepared you for it. He has been interested in her for some time, visited her in England—whether he did not know his own mind, or she did not know hers does not appear; but now they both seem to be of the same mind. Judith, dear, it isn’t such a dreadful thing.”
“Not to you,” said Judith.
Now, he would never come and take her away. No one would ever take her away. She did not belong to him any longer.
“Judith,” began Aunt Affy, hurriedly in the kitchen doorway. “Oh, you are fixing the beef-tea.”
She strained the beef-tea, salted it, poured it into a cup, and went to Aunt Rody’s entry bed-room as if she were in a dream, not thinking, or feeling anything but that she was left alone in the world, her Cousin Don had cast her off, he had broken his word to her mother, he had not cared for her as if she were his little sister. He did not even care to write and tell her that he was married and not coming home.