“No matter, you’ll get it just the same,” said Aunt Affy, patting her shoulder with a loving touch. “And, after this, you are to come to me for money—you are to be my own child; my little girl, and Cephas’ little girl.”
With her head on Aunt Affy’s shoulder Judith laughed and cried; she even began to feel glad of something—not that Don was married, or that she was not to be his housekeeper, or that she was not to be Aunt Rody’s nurse; it was almost wrong to be glad when she should be disappointed; then she knew she was glad because no one in all the world had the right to take her away from the parsonage.
The way of obedience had been easier than she thought. She stayed that day with Aunt Rody, doing little last things for her, and telling Aunt Affy ways of nursing that pleased Aunt Rody that she had discovered for herself.
“She will miss you,” Aunt Affy said that evening, as Judith came into the sitting-room dressed for her walk. Doodles was snoring upon his cushion on the lounge; Uncle Cephas, at the round table, was lost in the day’s paper; Joe, at another table, was reading a book he had found under rubbish in the storeroom: this last year he had developed a taste for books.
The girl lingered, with her satchel in her hand; the dear old home was a hard place to leave; without the cloud of Aunt Rody’s presence it was peace and sunshine.
Aunt Affy, with her pretty, gray head, her light step, her words of comfort and courage, moved about like a benediction; Uncle Cephas, rough and kindly, with strength in reserve for every emergency, gave, to the house the headship it had always lacked; Joe, to-night, was fine and sturdy, and growing into somebody; would they miss her?
Was the girl going away any real part of the strength and beauty of the old Sparrow place?
She was going because she chose to go.
Joe had asked her if she were “going for good.” Was to-night another turning-point?
If she stayed would her life to come be any different?