"Have some?" she asked the absorbed reader.
Without taking her eyes from her book, Judy stretched out her hand, then all at once she flashed a glance into the rosy face so close to her own.
"Anne," she said, almost humbly, "do you know you are more of a Ruskin girl than I am? He says that every girl, every day, should do something really useful about the house—go into the kitchen, and sew, and learn how to fold table-cloths, and things, like that. And you know all of those things—and how to help the poor—and I—I am always trying to do some great thing, and I never really help any one. Not any one, Anne—not a single soul—"
"But you are so clever," said little Anne.
"But people don't love you just because you are clever, and it isn't clever people that make others the happiest," and Judy dropped her book and gazed deep into the flames as if seeking there an answer to the problems of life.
"People love you, Judy."
"Sometimes they do, and some people—but my awful temper, Anne," and
Judy sighed.
"You don't flare up half as much as you used." Anne's tone was consoling. She had finished popping the corn, and she sat down on the floor beside the couch on which Judy lay, and munched the crisp kernels luxuriously.
"No, I don't," confessed Judy, "but it's an awful fight, Anne. You have helped me a lot."
"Me?" asked the rosy maiden in astonishment. "Why, how have I helped you, Judy?"