He brought thee to me, and he said, ‘Behold—a friend.’”
Exactly a month from the day Roger planned the Girl Papers for her, Judith knocked at the study door with her manuscript in her hand. She had written three papers; if he took sufficient interest in the first she would read the others.
Beside the education for herself she had another thought in writing them; she would send them to some child’s paper and earn money. She knew that Marion had never depended upon the parsonage for money; every month her father sent her a check; she had no father to send her a check. No money had come to her from her Cousin Don since his hurried marriage. Probably he considered her old enough to earn money for herself. It would be hard to tell Aunt Affy when she needed a dress, or shoes, or money, when she was not doing anything for Aunt Affy’s comfort.
Last Sunday she had no money for Sunday-school or church; she had no money for anything.
Her last story had been refused, and how she had cried over the refusal. It was even hard to laugh when Roger told her that Queen Victoria had sent an article to a paper under a “pen-name” and it had been “returned with thanks.” She wished she were a dressmaker like Agnes Trembly, or that she could go into a farmer’s kitchen, like Jean Draper’s sister Lottie, and earn money and not be ashamed.
“Come in,” called Roger from among his books.
Her eyes were suspiciously red, she was relieved that his back was toward her; he wheeled around in his chair as she seated herself, and looked as though he had nothing in the world to do but listen to her.
“Have you leisure to hear my Girl Papers?” she asked, with some embarrassment. “They are horrid. I tried an essay, and failed. It was stilted and stupid. I can make girls talk, so I threw my garnered information into a conversation. But you may not care for this style.”
“I can bear anything,” he said, making a comical effort at self-control.
After the first was read, with an inward quaking, she was delighted with his word of encouragement: