"My dear Miss Judy, nothing was further from my thoughts than to startle or offend you; but you know that—I only meant to tell you that—that a small matter has arisen which—that an unimportant suit has been filed—"
Miss Judy arose suddenly, and stood before him like a sentinel guarding a post. "Am I to understand, John, that some one is suing my father for debt," she said stiffly, and almost coldly; but the stiffness and coldness now were not for him. "Tell me all about it at once, please."
"It is nothing to trouble you. If such a note be in existence, it must have been barred by the statute of limitation long ago. How long has it been since your father died?" asked the judge.
"Over twenty-five years,—twenty-six years this coming October." And as Miss Judy spoke she turned, with a soft sigh, and looked tenderly at Miss Sophia, and was glad to see that she was fast asleep, sitting straight up in her chair.
"And this note, if given at all, must, of course, have been drawn before that date. Your father was in Virginia a long time."
"Yes," sighed Miss Judy, glancing again lovingly and protectingly at Miss Sophia. "It is very painful to sister Sophia and myself to remember how long."
"Don't think any more about it," said the judge. "There can be no necessity for your giving it another thought. The length of time, the statute of limitation, protects you. The note cannot possibly be of any value."
Miss Judy stood still for a moment in perplexed thought, with her little hands very tightly clasped before her.
"But if my father gave the note,—if he ever owed Colonel Fielding the money, and it never has been paid, I don't see that time can make any difference," she said at last, a little absently and a little uncertainly, as if she did not yet quite understand, but was, nevertheless, firmly feeling her way to the light.
"Well, most people would think it made a difference," the judge responded, smiling in spite of his sympathy with her troubled perplexity.