her till life was nearly quenched from lack of hope.  Nor did the sudden change seem able to restore the healthy action of what the old physicians called the animal spirits.  Possibly the strong reaction paralysed their channels, and thus prevented her gladness from reaching her physical nature so as to operate on its health.  Her whole complaint appeared in excessive weakness.  Finding that she fainted after every little excitement, I left her for four weeks entirely to my sister and Dr Duncan, during which time she never saw me; and it was long before I could venture to stay in her room more than a minute or two.  But as the summer approached she began to show signs of reviving life, and by the end of May was able to be wheeled into the garden in a chair.

During her aunt’s illness, Judy came often to the vicarage.  But Miss Oldcastle was unable to see her any more than myself without the painful consequence which I have mentioned.  So the dear child always came to me in the study, and through her endless vivacity infected me with some of her hope.  For she had no fears whatever about her aunt’s recovery.

I had had some painful apprehensions as to the treatment Judy herself might meet with from her grandmother, and had been doubtful whether I ought not to hive carried her off as well as her aunt; but the first time she came, which was the next day, she set my mind at rest on that subject.

“But does your grannie know where you are come?” I had asked her.

“So well, Mr Walton,” sne replied, “that there was no occasion to tell her.  Why shouldn’t I rebel as well as Aunt Wynnie, I wonder?” she added, looking archness itself.

“How does she bear it?”

“Bear what, Mr Walton?”

“The loss of your aunt.”

“You don’t think grannie cares about that, do you!  She’s vexed enough at the loss of Captain Everard,—­Do you know, I think he had too much wine yesterday, or he wouldn’t have made quite such a fool of himself.”

“I fear he hadn’t had quite enough to give him courage, Judy.  I daresay he was brave enough once, but a bad conscience soon destroys a man’s courage.”

“Why do you call it a bad conscience, Mr Walton?  I should have thought that a bad conscience was one that would let a girl go on anyhow and say nothing about it to make her uncomfortable.”

“You are quite right, Judy; that is the worst kind of conscience, certainly.  But tell me, how does Mrs Oldcastle bear it?”

“You asked me that already.”

Somehow Judy’s words always seem more pert upon paper than they did upon her lips.  Her naivete, the twinkling light in her eyes, and the smile flitting about her mouth, always modified greatly the expression of her words.

“—­Grannie never says a word about you or auntie either.”

“But you said she was vexed:  how do you know that?”

“Because ever since the captain went away this morning, she won’t speak a word to Sarah even.”