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 let me see the knife, Babs; I thought I had lost it." "No, it was in the back of your cabinet, just under all the peacock's feathers. Wasn't the earwig glad when you saved her?" "Yes," said Judy, smiling, "didn't she run home fast to her family? She was sticking in the wood and couldn't get out, poor darling, but my dear little knife cut the wood away and then she ran home. Oh, didn't she go fast!" "Yes, didn't she?" said Babs, laughing. "I think earwigs are such _sweet_ little animals, don't you, Judy?" "Insects, you mean," said Judy. "Oh, yes, I love them special because most people hate the poor dears." "What are you drawing, Judy? What a queer, queer picture!" "I'm going to call it 'Where the nasty fairies live,'" said Judy, "but I haven't finished it. Babs, how long is it since Hilda went away?" "Weeks, and weeks, and weeks," replied Babs. "I has almost forgotten how long." "Years and years, you mean," said Judy.