“God’s words can never be ‘just nothing.’ Those words were something to somebody, and they are a great deal to me. Do you remember something Christ says about a cubit?” “No; did he ever say anything?” “He said this: _Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit to his stature?_ You were taking thought to add something to your life. Your thought-taking has not done it,” said Marion, thinking that her own thought-taking had added no cubit to her own life. “No, indeed; I never should have thought of the parsonage boarding-school. Who did think of it besides you, Miss Marion?” “Several people who love you. If you had never thought of it, it would have been thought of for you. In that same talk Christ told the people: Your heavenly father knoweth that ye have need of all these things: _for_ your heavenly Father knoweth; that’s why we do not have to think about the cubits. I think I’ll give Roger ‘_For_ your heavenly Father’ for a text.” “I am so glad,” said Judith, with radiant eyes, “I love that ‘cubit’ now.” “So do I. I will certainly ask Roger to preach about our cubit.” “But don’t let him put me in,” protested Judith. “I should look conscious so everybody would know I was the girl. Jean Draper will be sure to know.” “He will not let it be a girl. He will make it somebody who was superstitious, and anxious, and did not trust God, nor know how to learn his will. Trust Roger for that. I always know when he puts people in, for we talk it over together; he puts me in so often that I am accustomed to being made a text of; and his own mistakes and failures are in all the time.” “I thought mine were,” acknowledged Roger’s attentive and appreciative listener. “And Uncle Cephas is sure his are in,” laughed Marion. “I think it is only the outside of us that isn’t alike.” Very often Judith was allowed to sit in the study with her books and writing. Mr. Kenney told her that she never disturbed him, that he would be disturbed if she were not there with her books and table in the bay-window. “Ask me a question whenever you like,” he said one day. But her questions were kept for Miss Marion. The year went on to Judith in household work, in study, in church work and “growing up” with the village girls; Nettie Evans and Jean Draper were her chief friends. The year went on to Marion. June came; the new minister and his sister had been a year in Bensalem. Marion told him that his sermons were growing up, because his boys and girls were growing up. In this year Marion Kenney had discovered Aunt Affy. She said to her one afternoon in the entry bedroom: “I was hungry to find you; I knew I wanted somebody. I knew you were in the world, because if you were not in the world, I should not be hungry for you.” “‘If it were not so, I would have told you,’” said Aunt Affy, in the confident tone in which she always repeated the Lord’s own words.