oming in and out of the room. Miss Mills fussed with
the fire, went to the window to look out over the landscape and to make
the same remark many times.

"How late the spring is this year," said the governess, in her dreary
monotone.

Babs stood with her back to Judy, sorting a cabinet full of curiosities.
There was no shadow of any sorrow on Babs' serene face--her full
contented voice prattled on interminably.

A drawing-board lay on Judy's bed, a sheet of drawing-paper, two or
three pencils, and a thick piece of india-rubber lay by her side. For
over an hour she had been drawing industriously. A pink color came into
her cheeks as she worked, and Aunt Marjorie said to herself:

"The child is all right--she just needed a little rest--she'll soon be
as well as possible. I'll go downstairs now, and write to Hilda about
her."

Miss Mills also thought that Judy looked better. Miss Mills was still
guilty of keeping up a somewhat one-sided correspondence with the person
whom she so cordially hated--she had not heard from him for nearly a
month, and thought that the present would be a good opportunity to write
another letter to remind him of her existence. So, glancing at Judy as
she went, she also left the room.

The door was shut carefully, and the two little sisters were alone. When
this happened, Judy threw down her pencils and gave utterance to a
faint, quickly-smothered sigh.

"Why do you do it so softly?" said Babs, not troubling herself to turn
her face, but still keeping her stout back to her sister.

"Do what so softly?" asked Judy.

"Those groans to yourself. Aunt Marjorie won't believe that you ever
groan, and I _know_ you do. She said you was as happy as the day is
long, and I said you _wasn't_. You know you do sob at night, or you have
she-cups or something."

"Look here," said Judy, "it's very, very, _very_ unkind of you, Babs, to
tell Aunt Marjorie what I do at night. I didn't think you'd be so
awfully mean. I am ill now, and Aunt Maggie would do anything for me,
and I'll ask her to put you to sleep in Miss Mills' room, if ever you
tell what I do at night again."

"I'll never tell if you don't wish me to," said Babs, in her easy tones.
"You may sob so that you may be heard down in the drawing room and I
won't tell. Look here, Judy, I have found your old knife."

"What old knife?"

"The one you saved that animal with last autumn, don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes, yes--the _dear_ little earwig. Do