“Well, dear,” said Aunt Affy in her welcoming tones. To Aunt Affy Judith Grey Mackenzie was the sweetest picture of girlhood in all the world; she was as fresh as the dew, tinted like an apple-blossom, as natural as a wild rose. To everyone else she was a girl of thirteen, with the faults, the forgetfulness, the impetuosity, the thoughtlessness, and above all, the selfishness of girlhood. Her yellow hair fell in long curls to her waist, because her mother had loved it so; her eyes of deepest blue were frank and truth-telling; in her lips, flexible, yet strong, was revealed a world of loving; a world that she had not yet learned herself. She was impatient, passionate, rebellious; but never was it in face, voice, or attitude when under the witchery of Aunt Affy’s appreciation. “Aunt Affy, I’ve been wicked,” she confessed in a humiliated voice. “So have I. I’ve been sitting here grumbling, when I should be the happiest old sinner in the world.” “I’ve been wickeder than that.” “How much wickeder?” “I borrowed a Sunday-school book to take to church because I do not understand Mr. Kenney.” “Did that help you understand him?” “I did try at first,” Judith explained, laughing at Aunt Affy’s serious question, “but it was about the things in Revelation, the hard things—” “Did he not say anything you _could_ understand?” “No—” said Judith, thinking that his message to her, her own private message, was the hardest of all to understand. “You were very rude.” “How was it rude?” Judith questioned, surprised. “He was speaking to you, and you refused to listen.” “I was listening to someone else,” said Judith, troubled. “That was more rude still. That was premeditated rudeness.” “I hope he did not notice it.” “You may trust him for that.” “But I cannot tell him I am sorry; it would choke me to death.” “And another thing—if he is Christ’s ambassador, and you refused to listen—” The girl’s eyes filled, and her lips trembled; was it _that_ she had done? “It’s time to set the table,” were Aunt Affy’s next words, in an unconcerned tone, polishing her glasses with a corner of her white apron. That small, clean old kitchen; how Judith loved it. She loved every kind of work that was done in it, even the wash-tubs, the smell of the suds was exhilarating, and baking and ironing days were her delight. Every nerve and muscle responded to the call to labor.