Judith liked to twist these curls around her fingers when she talked to Aunt Affy. “Only a little more to do,” encouraged Aunt Affy, giving her coil a firm twist. Sitting on the matting at Aunt Affy’s feet the little girl began her weary work again. “Aunt Affy! How did you get your name?” she inquired with the eagerness of something new to talk about. “How did you get yours?” asked Aunt Affy, seriously. “But mine is a real name.” “Isn’t mine?” “I never heard it before.” “Some people have never heard of Judith.” “That is true. Nettie never had.” “Mine is in the Bible. So is Rody’s.” “_Is_ it? Well, I’ve never read the Bible through.” “I will show it to you.” “Aunt Affy, you and Aunt Rody never look in the glass when you comb your hair. You sit anywhere. It’s very funny.” “When you have combed your hair sixty and eighty years you will not need to look in the glass,” was the serious reply. “It isn’t sixty,” said literal Judith. “You did not do it when you were a baby.” Taking her New Testament in large type from the small table near her, Aunt Affy found the place and laid it on the arm of her chair; Judith lifted herself and read where Aunt Affy’s finger pointed: “And to our beloved Apphia—but that isn’t Affy,” said astonished Judith. “It grew down to it when I was a girl, and has never grown up. Shall I find Rody?” Again Aunt Affy found the place, and Judith read. “‘And as Peter knocked at the door of the gate, a damsel came to hearken named Rhoda.’ That’s very funny,” she said, settling down among her rags. “There were eight of us girls, and we all had Bible names: Rody, Dark, that was Dorcas, Mary, Marthy, Deborah, that’s your mother’s mother, Hanner, it is really Hannah, Becky, and Affy the youngest, is eight. Rody and I only are left. They were all married but Rody and Becky and me. Cephas was engaged to poor Becky, and she died; he went away after that, went South, went West, and at last came here; I wrote to him to come and finish his days with me. Rody wasn’t exactly pleased.” “Why?” asked Judith, excited over the old folks’ romance. “She doesn’t like new happenings, and she never _had_ liked Cephas.” “She scolds him,” said Judith, with a feeling of sympathy. “She scolds me. She scolds the minister. It is only her way of talking.” At that moment Aunt Rody’s blue gingham sunbonnet appeared at the window; Judith’s nervous fingers worked hurriedly. “Not done yet. Jean Draper is worth two of you. The graham bread is out of the oven, a perfect bake, and I am going to call on Mrs. Evans, and take Nettie a custard.” “Well,” said Aunt Affy. Aunt Rody’s hair was white, but if it were soft to the touch, Judith’s fingers would never know; her black eyes were deep set, she had not one tooth, and her wrinkled lips had a way of keeping themselves sternly shut, unless they were sternly opened. “Joe is hunting eggs; I hope he won’t get into mischief while I’m gone.” “He hasn’t yet,” said Judith, Joe’s champion.