There was a slight movement of her hand, and although the nerveless, cold little fingers fell powerless on the old blue quilt, the girl who hung over her knew what the movement meant. Doris understood that Miss Judy wished to have the judge's letter read to her again; but before it could be drawn from beneath the pillow the blue eyes were closed, and Miss Judy seemed softly to fall asleep. In the deep silence which followed the shadowed room was filled with the hushed hum of the voices of the people waiting outside.
It seemed to the watchers a long time before Miss Judy's blue eyes opened gently, yet suddenly and with a clearer look. It was a look quite like her old sweet self. There was in it even a fleeting expression almost like her old innocent artfulness.
"I hope you won't mind—the—trouble," she said, going on after a long pause, after waiting for her reluctant breath to return; after waiting for her true heart to beat once more. "I—should like—you—to—to consult Doris—often."
The blue eyes wandered from the young man's face to the golden head bowed at the bedside. At least the young man thought so, but his own eyes were very dim, his own heart was beating very, very fast, and he could not see very clearly.
"I will do all that you wish, as nearly as I can," he said tremulously. "But—dear Miss Judy, have you considered? This is your sister's home—all that she has in the world."
Miss Judy's little hand tried to creep toward her sister's, but its strength failing Doris tenderly took it in hers and laid it on Miss Sophia's. Yet even then, when it had grown cold—with the coldness that never passes, and had become weak with the weakness that can never gain strength—it made a slight protecting movement.
"Sister Sophia—isn't—willing—to keep what is—not—our own. And Doris—"
There now followed so long a pause that Doris, who had been quiet and calm in her self-control up to this moment, thought it too late for her grief to disturb Miss Judy—believed it to be time to say quickly what she wished to say, if Miss Judy ever were to hear—and, dropping all guard, she burst into a passion of protest and weeping.
"Oh, you do believe that I can do what I have promised, dear, dear Miss Judy. You surely believe that I can do what I have promised!" she cried. "It would break my heart to think that you doubted. I don't know how I can do it, but I will—I will—I will—somehow. I will take care of Miss Sophia—always—I will work so hard. There must be work—somewhere, for me to do. Whatever I can make shall be hers. Anyway, our home is hers. I will try to be as good to her—as you have been to me."
"I do believe—my child," the faint and distant but sweet and loving voice said quite distinctly, and then, after one of the long, fluttering pauses, "but—you must let—Lynn—advise you."