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Temple Bailey
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 148 pages of information about Judy.

“No,” she said, shortly, “I am not going to finish it to-night—­I don’t know whether I shall ever finish it, Anne.  I’m not Ruskin’s kind of girl, Anne.  I can’t ‘sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,’ and I don’t think it is any use for me to try.”

Anne stared at the change that had come over her.  “Well, you are my kind of girl,” she said at last, and as they went up-stairs together, she slipped her hand into Judy’s arm.  “I love you, dearly, Judy,” she said.

But Judy smiled down at her vaguely, for her mind was on Tommy, crouched out there in the rain, and in imagination she was not Judy Jameson, commonplacely going to bed at nine o’clock, but a heroine of history, dedicated to the cause of one Thomas, the Downtrodden.

CHAPTER XIX

PERKINS CLEANS THE SILVER

All the next day, Tommy skulked in the shadow of the pier and in the boat-house, whence during the morning Judy made her way laden with mysterious bundles and various baggage.  At noon she departed for Lutie Barton’s, leaving Anne, who had a cold, at home.

After Judy’s departure, Anne wandered listlessly about the house.  She tried to read, to sew a little, to pick out some simple tunes on Judy’s piano, but thoughts of the little gray house, of the little grandmother, of Becky and Belinda, came between her and her occupations, so that at last, late in the afternoon, she sought the society of Perkins, who was in the dining-room cleaning silver.

“I believe I am homesick, Perkins,” said Anne, perching herself in a great mahogany chair opposite him.

“Well, it ain’t to be wondered at,” said Perkins, as he picked up a huge cake-dish and began to work on it, energetically.  “It ain’t to be wondered at.  You ain’t ever been away from home much, Miss Anne.”

“It is lovely not to have anything to do,” said Anne.  “That is, it is nice in a way, but do you know, Perkins, I sometimes just wish there were some rooms to dust or something, but you and the maids keep everything so clean,” and Anne sighed a sigh that came from the depths of her housewifely soul.

“You might dip these cups in hot water and wipe them as I gets them finished,” suggested Perkins, handing her several quaint little mugs, which he had placed in a row in front of him.

“Aren’t they dear,” Anne said, enthusiastically.  “Why this one says ‘Judith.’  Is it Judy’s, Perkins?”

“No, Miss, that was her great-grand-mother’s, and that one with ‘John’ on it is the Judge’s, and the one with ‘Philip’ is Miss Judy’s father’s—­they are christening cups, Miss—­six generations of them.”

“Oh, how lovely,” said Anne, and she handled them lovingly, dipping them into clear hot water, and polishing them until they shone.

“Judy never speaks of her father, lately,” she said, as she placed the “Philip” cup on the sideboard.

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