“Well,” said Aunt Affy.
Aunt Rody’s hair was white, but if it were soft to the touch, Judith’s fingers would never know; her black eyes were deep set, she had not one tooth, and her wrinkled lips had a way of keeping themselves sternly shut, unless they were sternly opened.
“Joe is hunting eggs; I hope he won’t get into mischief while I’m gone.”
“He hasn’t yet,” said Judith, Joe’s champion.
Joe, with his closely cut black hair, his grateful eyes, new gray suit with navy blue flannel shirt, rough shoes, willing and efficient ways, and his great love for Doodles, was some one not at all out of place on the “Sparrow farm;” even dainty Judith did not altogether disapprove his presence at the table.
The small disciple’s forehead was all in a pucker, and the blue eyes were so filled with tears that there was not room enough in her eyes for them; one tear kept pushing another down over her cheeks; they even rolled over her lips and tasted salt.
“Have you noticed the name on my new darning yarn?” inquired Aunt Affy, replacing the New Testament on the table.
“Superior quality,” read Judith, taking the card from the basket Aunt Affy brought to her lap from the table.
“No; on the top.”
“Dorcas,” read Judith.