The dream of Judith’s girlhood was coming true in a most unexpected way; she did not go to boarding-school, but boarding-school came to her in Bensalem; four days every week she studied at the parsonage with Miss Marion, her cousin Don’s “brown girl”; the dinner was the boarding-school part; often she was persuaded to stay to supper, and sometimes there would be an excuse for her to remain over night. Aunt Rody thought the excuses were much oftener than need be; she said “it seemed” that something was always going on at the parsonage; the parsonage was a worldly place with games, and company and music. Cephas replied that the parsonage folks were not going out into the world, but bringing the world in and consecrating it; she must not forget that “God so loved the world.” Aunt Rody retorted that He commanded his people not to love it, anyway. In his slow way Cephas replied: “He never told His people not to love it _His_ way.” The worldliness was not hurting Judith; nothing was hurting the little girl her mother left, when she shut her eyes upon all that would ever happen to her. How it happened that she went to boarding-school she never knew; she knew Aunt Affy cried and could not sleep all one night, that for once in his sweet-tempered life Uncle Cephas was angry, and as he told the minister, “talked like a Dutch uncle to Rody”; she knew a letter came from cousin Don to Aunt Rody herself, and that Aunt Rody did not speak to anybody in the house, excepting innocent Joe, for three whole weeks. In spite of Aunt Rody, Agnes Trembly made new dresses from the materials Miss Marion took Judith to New York to select, and a box of school books was sent by express, and another box with every latest thing in the way of school-room furnishing. A bureau in Miss Marion’s room was placed at the disposal of her goods, and one corner of a wardrobe was made ready for her dresses. Still, with all her happy privileges, there was no place she called home; she said: “Aunt Affy’s” and “the parsonage.” Once, speaking of Summer Avenue, she said “home” unconsciously. She rarely spoke of her mother. All her loneliness and desolation and heartaches she poured out in her letters to cousin Don. He understood. She never thought that she must be “brave” for him. Nothing since her mother went away comforted her like her boarding-school. During one heart-opening twilight she confided to Marion about casting lots in the Bible to find out if she would ever go to boarding-school. “What _did_ you find?” asked Marion. If she were shocked she kept the shock out of her voice. She told Roger afterward she was almost too shocked to speak. “The queerest thing that meant nothing: ‘And a cubit on the one side and a cubit on the other side.’” “I am glad you found that,” said Marion, “I think God wanted to help you by giving you that.” “But it _didn’t_ help; how could it?” “It helps me.” “It doesn’t sound like a Bible verse; it is just nothing,” persisted Judith.