Roger believed that Judith Grey Mackenzie was the merriest maiden in Bensalem. “I would if I were going to dine at the parsonage, but there’s no housekeeper there, more’s the pity, I shall take dinner and supper with one of the deacons, and drive home in the moonlight. You would like that.” “All but the deacon.” “And you wouldn’t endure the deacon for the sake of the cubit sermon.” “Indeed, I wouldn’t. What would they think of me?” “That you are a very nice little girl.” “I’m too big a girl, that’s the worst of it.” “That’s the best of it—for me.” “I don’t know whether I’m glad of it or not,” she said, as frankly as if speaking to Marion. “The only trouble I have in the world is that I’m growing up away from being your little girl.” [Illustration: “The only trouble I have,” said Judith, “is that I’m growing up away from being your little girl.”] “Don’t you dare,” he said with playful threatening. “I don’t dare.” “As if you could, Lady-Bug.” “Oh, how that brings back dear old Don. It is the last name he ever called me—outside of a letter. Don’t you believe that he’s coming home soon?” “I know it.” “Do you know how soon?” “That is his secret.” “Oh,” drawing a long breath, “I’m too glad. But I don’t want to go to the city and keep house for him, and go to college and have every advantage, as he says I must do. I’ve _had_ every advantage; you and Marion have been my ‘liberal education.’ Nothing will ever take me away from Marion.” “Or your brother Roger.” “Oh, you two are one. I always mean you both.” “But hasn’t your Cousin Don the best right to you? Isn’t he your guardian or something?” “He is my everything—beside you and Marion and Aunt Affy.” “Then he must do as he thinks best.” “Am I not to be consulted? I belong to myself first of all.” “You will be much consulted, no doubt.” “Then I hope I shall not have to do anything I don’t want to. I’m afraid Don will be like a stranger. I was only a little girl when he went away. I do not feel at home with _him_, only with the thought of him.” “With your thought of him?” “And my thought may be very far wrong. O, Roger, do you believe it is?” bringing her earnest face within range of his too sympathetic eyes. “Tell me what is your thought of him,” he said, gently, taking the reins from her hands. “You see you cannot talk and drive, too. Daisy was walking into a fence.” She gave up the reins without any consciousness of the action; she was looking at her Cousin Don’s face as she had told a “picture” of it to her mother. “He is so fine, so unselfish, so true, so considerate, a refuge from everything that troubles me, a part of my mother to me—I have saved all his letters, they are my chief treasures. If I should be disappointed in him the sun would drop out of the sky.” “Poor little girl,” thought the man beside her, tenderly. “Suppose you are disappointed in me,” he asked, lightly; “have you ever thought about that?”