“Put away your book, dear; and come and sit on the rug close to me. I want to be all alone with my little girl once more before Aunt Affy comes.” Reluctantly Judith closed the book; she remembered afterward that she thought she would rather finish the story than go and sit on the rug and talk to her mother. “Mother,” she began, as brightly as though a minute ago she had not wished to finish the story first, “Don might have stayed with us all winter and had that room to sleep in.” “Yes, I thought of that. It would have made a difference in somebody’s life.” “Whose life?” Judith questioned. “In his own,” replied her mother, “and other people’s. I did not intend to speak my thought aloud.” The sunset was in the room: it was over Judith, and over her mother. “Was he sorry he did not come here?” Judith persisted. “I think he was. He said we would have made him so comfortable. He would have taken his meals with Mrs. Kindare.” “Are you sorry, too?” “No—not exactly. If it were a mistake, it will be taken care of—it is very queer to trust God with our sins and not with our mistakes.” “I made a ‘mistake’ that night he was here, mother; I did not mean to make a sin.” “Tell me, dear.” “I thought I would never tell. I was afraid it would worry you. But I cried after I went to bed. You will think me naughty and silly.” “Do I ever?” “Yes, oh, yes,” smiled Judith, “you always do every time I am.” “I could not lie down in peaceful sleep to-night if I believed that my little daughter kept a thought in her heart she would rather not tell her mother.” “But I shouldn’t keep silly thoughts in my heart.” “That is what mothers are for—to hear all the silly things.” “Then I’ll tell you,” decided Judith, bringing herself from a lounging posture, upright, and yet not touching her mother’s knees; “that night Lottie said there was a good way to find out what would happen to you next—to wish for a thing and shut your eyes and open the Bible and put your hand on a verse, and if it said _And it came to pass_ you would certainly have it. We both did it, and she got her wish and I didn’t get mine. My heart was heavy, for I was afraid you wouldn’t like it as soon as I did it.” “I do not like it. But I am glad you did it.” “Why, _mother_!” “Because I can talk to you about something I might never have thought about.” “I like _that_,” said Judith, comforted; “I hope Cousin Don’s mistake will be good for him.” “It is already. What do you want to know about yourself?” “Things that will happen, grown-up things. I make castles about grown-up things. When I make an air-castle I am never a little girl, but a big girl, fifteen or eighteen, and that kind of things happen; the kind of things that happen to girls in books. Is that silly?”