Judy drew her skirts away from Belinda's patting paw. "I hate cats," she said, with decision.
Anne's lips set in a firm line, but she did not say anything. Presently, however, she looked down at Belinda, who rubbed against the table leg, and as she met the affectionate glance of the cat's green orbs, her own eyes said: "I am not going to like her, Belinda," and Belinda said, "Purr-up," in polite acquiescence.
Judy had taken off her hat and coat, and she sat a slender white figure in the old rocker. Around her eyes were dark shadows of weariness, and she was very pale.
"How good the air feels," she murmured, and laid her head back against the cushion with a sigh.
Anne's heart smote her. "Aren't you feeling well, Judy?" she asked, timidly.
"I'm never well," Judy said, slowly. "I'm tired, tired to death, Anne."
Anne set the little blue bowls at the places, softly. She had never felt tired in her life, nor sick. "Wouldn't you like a glass of milk?" she asked, "and not wait until lunch is ready? It might do you good."
"I hate milk," said Judy.
Anne sat down helplessly and looked at the weary figure opposite. "I am afraid you won't have much for lunch," she quavered, at last. "We haven't anything but bread and milk."
"I don't want any lunch," said Judy, listlessly. "Don't worry about me, Anne."