A LOST ARCADIA.
It was on this same morning that Judith made a desperate effort to rouse herself from the prostration into which she had fallen. All through that long darkness and despair she had been wearily and vainly asking herself whether she could do nothing to retrieve the evil she had wrought. Her good name might go—she cared little for that now—but was there no means of making up to her father the actual money he had lost? It was not forgiveness she thought of, but restitution. Forgiveness was not to be dreamed of; she saw before her always that angered face she had beheld in the garden, and her wish was to hide away from that, and be seen of it no more. Then there was another thing: if she were to be permitted to remain at the cottage, ought she not to show herself willing to take a share of the humblest domestic duties? Might not the good dame begin to regard her as but a useless encumbrance? If it were so that no work her ten fingers could accomplish would ever restore to her father what he had lost through her folly, at least it might win her grandmother's forbearance and patience. And so it was on the first occasion of her head ceasing to ache quite so badly she struggled to her feet (though she was so languid and listless and weak that she could scarcely stand), and put round her the heavy cloak that had been lying on the bed, and smoothed her hair somewhat, and went to the door. There she stood for a minute or two, listening, for she would not go down if there were any strangers about.
The house seemed perfectly still. There was not a sound anywhere. Then, quite suddenly, she heard little Cicely begin to sing to herself—but in snatches, as if she were occupied with other matters—some well-known rhymes to an equally familiar tune—
"By the moon we sport and play;
With the night begins our day;
As we drink the dew doth fall,
Trip it, dainty urchins all!
Lightly as the little bee,
Two by two, and three by three,
And about go we, go we."
—and she made no doubt that the little girl was alone in the kitchen. Accordingly, she went down. Cicely, who was seated near the window and busily engaged in plucking a fowl, uttered a slight cry when she entered, and started up.
"Dear Mistress Judith," she said, "can I do aught for you? Will you sit down? Dear, dear, how ill you do look!"
"I am not at all ill, little Cicely," said Judith, as cheerfully as she could, and she sat down. "Give me the fowl—I will do that for you, and you can go and help my grandmother in whatever she is at."
"Nay, not so," said the little maid, definitely refusing. "Why should you?"
"But I wish it," Judith said. "Do not vex me now—go and seek my grandmother, like a good little lass."
The little maid was thus driven to go, but it was with another purpose. In about a couple of minutes she had returned, and preceding her was Judith's grandmother.