“He said so. And to say good-bye to the parsonage. We agreed not to write to each other while he was out west.” “What for,” questioned Aunt Affy, suspiciously. “Had you ever written to each other before?” “No,” laughed Judith, softly, “and we agreed not to begin.” “What for?” asked Aunt Affy, again. “For fun, I think, as much as anything. I think we had no real reason.” “Two such reasonable creatures, too. Judith, you _had_ a reason or he had. Why should the question come up?” Aunt Affy asked severely. “Oh, questions are always coming up. He asked me if I would write and I refused.” “And that’s how you agreed together. What was _your_ reason?” “I think,” began Judith slowly, “I was afraid Roger wouldn’t like it. Or Marion. Marion is particular about such things. I’m afraid she had something to trouble her once—she never will tease anybody about anybody, even.” “Well, be off, and dress. I told John you would not be out for some time.” “I’ll go in this dress. I haven’t seen him for months.” Whether the haste augured well or ill for John, Aunt Affy could not decide; she went into Aunt Rody’s bedroom, touched her forehead and spoke to her. “Are you sleepy, Rody?” “Yes.” “Would you like anything?” “No.” Aunt Affy, with her mending for her husband and for Joe, kept watch in the entry, lighted by the open back door, all the afternoon. After half an hour on the piazza, Judith gave John Aunt Affy’s latest magazine to amuse himself with, and went up to her small chamber, to braid her tumbled hair and to array herself in the fresh, blue muslin. In the cracked glass over the old bureau she met the reflection of a girl with joyful eyes and cheeks like pink roses. She knew that was not the girl that had watched Aunt Rody in the entry. Her summer companion had come back; he was her vacation friend; perhaps she had missed him; perhaps her loneliness had not all been for her Cousin Don. He was still in her world; across the continent had not been in her world. He had not sent her one message through letters to Marion or Roger. She had not dared write to him. But he was home again, just as grave, and just as bright, with no reproach in his eyes, and he was planning to stay a week. He had come to talk to Roger and decide his choice of business in life; his father wished to take him into his own business, the jeweller’s, either in the factory or store, but he had no taste for making jewelry, or selling it, he said; he would rather study; he was “not good enough” to be a minister; he would like to study medicine.