Judith thought Aunt Affy read but one book. How could anyone be wise and read only one book?
“Well, dear,” said Aunt Affy in her welcoming tones. To Aunt Affy Judith Grey Mackenzie was the sweetest picture of girlhood in all the world; she was as fresh as the dew, tinted like an apple-blossom, as natural as a wild rose. To everyone else she was a girl of thirteen, with the faults, the forgetfulness, the impetuosity, the thoughtlessness, and above all, the selfishness of girlhood. Her yellow hair fell in long curls to her waist, because her mother had loved it so; her eyes of deepest blue were frank and truth-telling; in her lips, flexible, yet strong, was revealed a world of loving; a world that she had not yet learned herself.
She was impatient, passionate, rebellious; but never was it in face, voice, or attitude when under the witchery of Aunt Affy’s appreciation.
“Aunt Affy, I’ve been wicked,” she confessed in a humiliated voice.
“So have I. I’ve been sitting here grumbling, when I should be the happiest old sinner in the world.”
“I’ve been wickeder than that.”
“How much wickeder?”
“I borrowed a Sunday-school book to take to church because I do not understand Mr. Kenney.”
“Did that help you understand him?”
“I did try at first,” Judith explained, laughing at Aunt Affy’s serious question, “but it was about the things in Revelation, the hard things—”