“Why, Judith,” reproached Jean, “what would Aunt Affy say to that?” “It would hurt her. She would look sorry. I do not know what gets into me, sometimes. She would adopt me and be like my own mother.” “Do you resist such a sweet mothering as that?” rebuked Mrs. Lane. “I think I lost some of the sermon Sunday morning by looking at her face.” “I do not mean to _resist_ her,” said Judith, not able to keep the tears back. “She told mother her heart ached to have you back,” persuaded Jean, “since her sister died she had so longed for her little girl.” “I’m afraid I am not doing right,” confessed Judith, “but I was almost homesick there, when Aunt Rody was sick. And then, I think I _must_ learn to support myself, and not be dependent.” “Oh, you American girl,” said Mrs. Lane. “And with Aunt Affy for your _mother_,” added Jean; “I told Mrs. Lane you had ideas.” “I should think I had,” said Judith, laughing to keep the tears back. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten Aunt Affy. She loves two people in me, she says; my mother and me. I don’t know what _has_ possessed me.” “Ambition, perhaps,” Mrs. Lane suggested, taking up her knitting,—a long black stocking for her only grandchild. “Not just that,” Judith reasoned; “it is more making something of myself for myself. Culture for its own sake,” she quoted from Roger, who had warned her against her devotion to self-culture; “and I give it a self-sacrificing name; the desire to be independent. I do not know why I should _not_ be dependent on Aunt Affy. My mother was—and loved it.” “No service could be more acceptable than serving her,” said Mrs. Lane; “the world is only a larger Bensalem.” “It isn’t the _world_ I wanted,” replied Judith, impatiently. When Judith went away Jean walked down the street with her. “Are you disappointed in Mrs. Lane?” she asked. “She did not tell me what I hoped and expected. She told me something better. I think I can study at Aunt Affy’s,” in the tone of one having made a sacrifice. “And go to the parsonage every day,” said Jean eagerly, and yet afraid of pressing her point. “Yes—if I wish to,” replied Judith slowly, surprising herself by coming to a decision. “Bensalem is such a place for talk,” Jean ventured, not that she was confident of success. “Everybody knows everybody’s business and is interested in it.” “But it is kindly talk,” said Judith, whom gossip had touched lightly. “Yes, sometimes—not always,” Jean hesitated; “people will misjudge.” “Jean Draper, what do you mean?” asked Judith, blazing angrily; “are you trying to tell me something?” “No,” replied Jean, startled at Judith’s unusual vehemence. “I only want you to understand that Aunt Affy is talked about for letting you stay so much at the parsonage.” “How could it hurt anybody?” “They say Aunt Affy is—scheming,” she said, watching the effect of her words. “Scheming. What about? What does _she_ gain?” asked Judith, provoked.