Judy made a rather deformed batch but Mère Tricot declared the children would not know the difference, and they could be sold to them. “The soldats must have the prettiest and another time you can make them well enough for them.”
So far, Judy had not shed a tear. Her eyes felt dry and feverish and her heart was still beating in her throat in some mysterious way. Suddenly without a bit of warning the tears came. Splash! Splash! they dropped right on the tarts.
“Never mind the tarts!” exclaimed the kindly grenadier. “Those must go to Jean’s regiment. They will understand.”
“I could not help it,” sobbed poor Judy. “I was thinking how proud Kent would be of me when he knew I could make tarts and wondering how many he could eat, when all of a sudden it came to me that he never would know—and—and—Oh, Mother Tricot!” and she buried her face on the bosom of the good old woman, who patted her with one hand and held her close while she adroitly whisked a pan of tarts from the oven with the other.
“Tarts must not burn, no matter if hearts are broken!”
CHAPTER X.
THE ZEPPELIN RAID.
Judy’s cry did her good, although it left her in such a swollen state she was not fit to keep shop, which was what she had planned to do for the afternoon.
“I think I’ll go round to the studio in Rue Brea for a little while. I want to get some things.”