“I am not grown up either, you see. Perhaps I shall grow up with you. She wouldn’t let me mix the bread to-night, and she never lets me take the butter out of the churn. And when we go to town shopping she always carries the money.” Judith laughed a doleful little laugh, and went bravely up stairs to her turning-point. It was moonlight, but she must light the candle for company; she would keep it burning all night, or as long as it would burn, if she dared. She would scratch the match where she liked; Aunt Rody had no right to order her about so; she did not belong to Aunt Rody. She wished Aunt Affy would let her go to live always at the Parsonage. Perhaps Cousin Don would if she wrote and told him all about Aunt Rody. One night last week Aunt Rody had put her head in at the door and found her scratching a match on the bureau along the crack on its upper edge; she often did it; but Aunt Rody gave a scream and seized her by the arm and said angrily; “Judith Grey Mackenzie, don’t you do that again; I’ll whip you as sure as you live if I ever see you do it again. You might set the house on fire. Suppose a spark should fall into the upper drawer.” But a spark never had. The upper drawer was shut tight; Aunt Rody had no right to catch her by the arm like that. And _whip_ her! She wouldn’t dare. She would go to the parsonage and stay until Cousin Don came after her. She was old enough to scratch a match where she liked. With a sudden indignant stroke she drew the match under the top edge of the bureau: a snap and a flash. “There,” she said aloud, triumphantly. She lighted the candle and dropped the burnt match in the tin pail that served as slop jar. It was very quiet down stairs; Joe had gone to bed, Uncle Cephas had not come home from the session meeting at the parsonage; she wished he would come. Then, the tiniest curl of smoke caught her eye—out of the top drawer; no, that was tight shut; the curl grew and grew; _it came from the crack under the top edge of the bureau_. Paralyzed with terror she stood and looked. It _was_ smoke. And it grew and grew. Should she run down and tell Aunt Affy? But Aunt Rody would hear and come, too. Might she call Joe? But he might tell Aunt Rody the next day; he looked cross at her at supper time because she said she would not read aloud to him all the evening. If Uncle Cephas would only come. But he always stayed late at session meeting—there it was, slowly, so slowly curling up. It was real smoke, and there had to be fire to make smoke. The bureau would burn first and then—after a long time she remembered that water would put out fire; what a goose she was to stand there and see the smoke grow. She poured water into the wash-bowl, soaked the wash-cloth, and ran it carefully all along the crack. There, it was out. Nothing to be frightened about. But she would never do it again. Aunt Rody did not know about that.