"But me, good grandmother! Me!" Prudence cried, with tears in her eyes. "Surely she will not refuse to see me!"
"No one, she saith," was the answer. "Poor wench, her head do ache so bad. And when one would cheer her or comfort her a morsel, 'tis another fit of crying—that will wear her to skin and bone, if she do not pluck up better heart. She hath eaten naught this morning neither; 'tis for no wilfulness, poor lass, for she tried an hour ago; and now 'tis best as I think to leave her alone."
"By your leave, good grandmother," said Prudence, with some firmness, "that will I not. If Judith be in such trouble, 'tis not likely that I should go away and leave her. It hath never been the custom between us two."
"As you will, Prudence," the grandmother said. "Young hearts have their confidences among themselves. Perchance you may be able to rouse her."
Prudence went up the stairs silently and opened the door. Judith was lying on the bed, her face turned away from the light, her hands clasped over her forehead.
"Judith!"
There was no answer.
"Judith," said her friend, going near, "I am come to see you."
There was a kind of sob—that was all.
"Judith, is your head so bad? Can I do nothing for you?"