“Did I do it?” she asked, as she felt the touch of both hands. “Is it done for always?” “Yes,” said the minister, “you’ve done it. Now, listen to every word.” “Has he promised to take care of Affy?” Rody asked, peering up into Roger’s face. “Yes, Rody, with all my heart and soul and strength,” answered the old man, with the light of communion Sunday in his face. The curl drooped lower on Cephas’ shirt-sleeve; Judith stood near Aunt Affy. The solemn, glad words were spoken, the prayer uttered, the benediction given; Aunt Affy and Uncle Cephas were married. “Let me kiss you, Rody,” said Affy, through her tears. “I kissed you when you were a baby,” said Rody. “You were a nice little baby. Mother said I must always think of you first.” “Now, you will go to bed,” said Affy. “It’s after nine o’clock.” “Not in my room. I’ll go in your room. Don’t you go away all night. Keep the light burning, and don’t you go.” “No; I’ll stay, Rody; we will take care of you always, Cephas and I.” Judith stayed that night; Aunt Rody slept well, and arose in the morning at her usual early hour. She made no allusion to the marriage that day, nor as long as she lived. XXIII. VOICES. “The love for me once crucified, Is not a love to leave my side, But waiteth ever to divide Each smallest care of mine.” The three were in the study that Sunday afternoon that the Meadow Centre minister exchanged with Roger Kenney; the minister, the hostess, and the girl at boarding-school. The boarding-school girl had a book in her lap with her finger between the leaves, listening. “Mr. King talks as though he had never had any one to talk to before,” Judith thought as she watched the two and listened. His conversation was filled with bits of information, with incident, with a thought now and then, absorbingly interesting to a school-girl. Roger loved people better than he loved books; Judith had not outgrown her books, and grown into loving people. The Meadow Centre minister was a chapter in a most fascinating book; he was the hero of a story; he was not a being of flesh and blood like Roger. She was afraid every moment the book would shut and she would read no more of his story; “to be continued” would end this chapter, and then she might never see the end of the book. “‘Conversation is not the road leading to the house,’” he quoted, “‘but a by-path where people walk with pleasure.’” “I think it leads to the house,” replied Judith, quickly, “if people are real and sincere. What _does_ lead to the house if conversation does not?” “Deeds,” suggested Marion. “But we can’t do deeds every minute,” persisted Judith; “how could we do deeds sitting here this afternoon.” “We have done them,” said Mr. King; “we are resting in a by-path.” “But we want to get to the house,” insisted Judith. “Loitering by the way is pleasant; through the by-way we may learn the way to the house.”