Her eyes were closed, and her dark lashes swept across her pallid cheeks.
"She isn't strong," whispered the worried Anne, her tender fingers pushing back Judy's wet hair.
"No," said Launcelot, his deep young voice softening to a gentler key as he looked down at her, "she isn't. Poor little thing!"
Judy heard, and her lashes fluttered. "How good they are," she thought, remorsefully, and then she seemed to float away from realities.
When she came to herself, Launcelot had gone, and the three little girls were rubbing her hands and trying to get her to drink some water.
"Oh, Judy, do you feel better?" Anne whispered; "we were so frightened."
"Yes," murmured Judy, and the color began to come into her face.
"Launcelot went to see if he could get something from Perkins for you to take," said Anne; "he told us to build a fire in the old stove, but we have been so worried about you that we haven't done anything."
"Is there a stove?" asked Judy, listlessly.
"Yes. Mr. Cutter put it in here to heat milk for the lambs, and once when we had a picnic we made our coffee here."