How could she ever look into Aunt Affy’s face again? And, oh, how could she ever love Aunt Rody? She groaned, and Aunt Affy came to her and asked if she felt worse. The neighbor went out on tiptoe; Aunt Rody came from the kitchen to stand threateningly near while Aunt Affy coaxed mouthful by mouthful the draining of the bitter bowl. While Aunt Rody was taking her nap that afternoon Jean Draper knocked on the open kitchen door. Judith and Aunt Affy were washing dishes together at the kitchen sink; Judith gave a cry of pleased surprise at the sound of the knock and the vision of the girl in the doorway. “O, Jean, I _wished_ for you,” she said, with the longing for young companionship in her heart. “And I wanted you. I am going to see Miss Marion on a secret errand, and I can’t do it without you. Can you spare her, Miss Affy?” “If her head will let her go,” began Miss Affy, doubtfully. “Oh, that’s well,” cried Judith, joyfully, “but what will Aunt Rody say?” she questioned in dismay. “I will take care of that,” promised Aunt Affy, anticipating with dread the half hour’s scolding the permission would bring upon herself. “You are making her a gad-about just like yourself,” the monologue would begin. “Are you _sure_, Aunt Affy, dear?” asked Judith, anxiously. “Yes, sure. Run away and put on your new gingham.” XIII. THE TWO BLESSED THINGS. “In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.” —_Prov._ iii. 6. “How excellent a thought to me Thy loving-kindness then shall be! Thus in the shadow of Thy wings I’ll hide me from all troublous things.” “My life is like Africa; there are no paths anywhere,” said Marion. She was not petulant; the tone was not petulant; Marion knew she thought she was bearing her life bravely. The study was cool and darkened that August afternoon; she lay idly upon the lounge, a fresh magazine in her lap, and a pile of books on the carpet within reach of her idle hands. A year ago she thought she loved books—and music, and life. Roger liked to have her near him while he wrote and studied, but he did not like her idle moods. This latest one had lasted two days. He pushed his large volume away, and taking up an ivory paper cutter began to run its sharp edges across his fingers. Marion was easily hurt; he could not advise work as he did yesterday. “If your life were like Africa,” he began in an unsuggestive tone, “you would have a beaten track wherever you turned; no unmapped country in the world is better supplied with paths than this same Africa that your hedged-in life is like. Every village is connected with some other village by a path; you can follow ziz-zag paths from Zanzibar to the Atlantic; they are beaten as hard as adamant; they are made by centuries of native traffic.” “I have learned something about Africa,” she answered, demurely, “if not about my life.” “Which are you the more interested in?”