This day, in which God’s daily bread and his daily will were given to Judith as upon all the other days, was one of the very happiest days of her happy life. Roger’s kiss gave her an undefined sense of safety and protection; if she were not wise enough to decide when the time came she would take refuge in that safety and protection, and—another kiss. That evening Joe came for her, saying Aunt Rody was worse. She went home with him, and “watched” with Aunt Affy, until poor Aunt Rody passed away from the home she had toiled so unceasingly for and taken so little comfort in. One week she stayed with Aunt Affy: “I miss her so,” wept Aunt Affy broken-heartedly; “I never was in the world without her before.” “I suppose we musn’t keep you, Judith,” Uncle Cephas remarked one evening behind his newspaper. “Not yet,” said Judith. “I want to be as busy as a bee this winter to get ready for something.” “Then we will have to adopt Joe; we must have some young thing about the house.” Judith’s first words to Roger and Marion as they went out to welcome her on the piazza were in a burst: “I do think those two old people growing old together is the loveliest thing I ever saw.” “How young must two people begin to grow old together?” inquired Roger, comically. “As soon as they think about growing old,” said Marion. “Then I will not begin to think until my birthday,” said Judith. “Marion, I am too happy in having two homes. Some better girl than I should have them.” “You forget your third home in England,” remarked Roger, seriously. “Oh, poor Don. Roger, I am afraid Don isn’t happy,” she said, with slow emphasis. What Roger thought he did not say. Don’s letters were brief, constrained; Judith’s letter to her “new, dear Cousin Florence” had met with no response—that Judith knew. XXX. A TALK AND WHAT CAME OF IT. “There is nothing which faith does not overcome; nothing which it will not accept.” —Bishop Huntington. “Roger,” began Judith, doubtfully. “Begin again, I don’t like that tone.” “I was afraid you were thinking—” “I should be sorry not to be.” “I was afraid you were thinking too deeply to be disturbed.” “Then I shouldn’t _be_ disturbed; my mind would be absent from my ear and I should not hear that doubtful appeal. The _doubt_ is what I object to.” Marion and her mother had not returned from their drive to Meadow Centre, where Mrs. Kenney had a school friend. They intended to “spend an old-fashioned day,” Mrs. Kenney remarked at the breakfast table; it was five o’clock in the November afternoon and the old-fashioned day was not yet ended.