“O mother, it is too splendid for anything,” she exclaimed; “when you are rested I will read it to you.”
“Is your ironing all done?”
“Yes, mother.”
“And Aunt Affy’s bed made?”
“All made. Mrs. Kindare put up the cot herself and lent me two blankets. It is a cunning room; Aunt Affy will like it; Mrs. Kindare said she could spare the room better than not, and Aunt Affy may stay a month, waiting until we can go home with her.”
“Put away your book, dear; and come and sit on the rug close to me. I want to be all alone with my little girl once more before Aunt Affy comes.”
Reluctantly Judith closed the book; she remembered afterward that she thought she would rather finish the story than go and sit on the rug and talk to her mother.
“Mother,” she began, as brightly as though a minute ago she had not wished to finish the story first, “Don might have stayed with us all winter and had that room to sleep in.”
“Yes, I thought of that. It would have made a difference in somebody’s life.”
“Whose life?” Judith questioned.