Aunt Rody insisted that some one should always stay at home; there was the silver, and her will, and a great many other things to be guarded from Sunday marauders. “Judith Grey Mackenzie,” began Aunt Rody, in her most revengeful voice, “you must behave in church or stay at home.” “I was behaving—I read to help behave; when I cannot understand I think everyday thoughts; isn’t that worse than reading?” “Nothing is so bad behaved as reading. And all the folks seeing you. What do you suppose the new minister thinks of you?” “He thinks I am not—” Her shy lips could not frame the words “a Christian.” “Not very well brought up,” tartly finished Aunt Rody. “I brought myself up, that’s the reason then,” replied Judith, her eyes filling with resentful tears. “Mother was always too sick. Cousin Don said my mother was the sweetest mother in the world.” “You act like a sick mother; but you’ve got an aunt that isn’t sick; and if I ever see you read again in church you shall not go to church for six months. Tell your Cousin Don that.” “I wouldn’t mind church,” replied Judith. “To Sunday School then, if that hurts more.” “Oh, tut, tut,” came good humoredly from the front seat. “Don’t forget your own young days, Rody.” “I never had any. Just as I shall never have any old age. I’ve never had time to be young or old.” Judith laughed. Aunt Rody was eighty-four years old. “Don’t you deceive me about the book, Judith, for I don’t always go to church.” “Aunt Rody,” with girlish dignity, “I never deceived any one in my life.” “That’s a good deal to say.” “I haven’t lived to be eighty-four, but I think I never _shall_ deceive. I would rather _die_ than not be true,” she burst out. “H’m, you haven’t been tried.” Judith thought she had; did not this grim, hard old woman try her every day of her life? The long village street was lined with maples and locusts; inside the yards were horse-chestnut trees, lilacs, and syringas. All over the beautiful country the fruit trees were in blossom; Judith revelled in the fragrance and delicate tints of the apple-blossom; she called it her apple-blossom spring. The story and a half red farmhouse, with its slanting roof and long piazza, marked the “Sparrow place”; it had been the Sparrow place one hundred and fifty years. The red farmhouse was built one hundred years ago; the Sparrow girls, the eight sisters, were all born there long before many of the village people could remember. As Judith stepped up on the piazza the bowed gray head at the window was lifted; the girl went to the open window and stood; Aunt Affy took off her spectacles and laid them in the book she was reading. Judith thought Aunt Affy read but one book. How could anyone be wise and read only one book?