“Rody had something to repent of, if she only thought of it; only she never _does_ think. She worked on Becky’s feelings about Cephas, but Becky held on, and wouldn’t give him up; so she and I together, when Rody wasn’t looking on, made her wedding things, such piles. I enjoyed it as if it were to be my own house-keeping; I loved them both so, and Rody worked hard and was dreadfully cross to us all; and the cellar for the new house was dug, and Becky was as happy as a queen. How she sang about the house. Cephas had a shop of his own in town by this time, and journeymen and apprentices; he _was_ a rusher; he expected to drive in every day. He wanted a house in town, but Becky loved the old place and she was always delicate, and he couldn’t bear to cross her. And, then, it’s a sad story for young people, but you must know there’s sadness in the world as well as joy—she died suddenly with fever. I watched her night and day. And Rody. She was a ministering angel. She died in Rody’s arms. Rody had been like a mother to her. Her things, ‘our things’ she used to say, were all packed away. Cephas failed in business—I think he didn’t care much whether he failed or not, and came back to the farm. Flowers and weeds began to grow in the cellar of Becky’s house; it’s only a big green hole now. Cephas wanted me to use her things; he said Becky would like it, and I knew she would. He comforted me and I comforted him. Rody didn’t like _that_, and sent him away. We comfort each other now, and always will. Rody can’t hinder everything. Why, child, don’t have such big eyes over my story. Becky has been happy all these blessed years, and Cephas and I talk over old times and look forward to new times; and, we _would_ like to build a house over Becky’s cellar if Rody didn’t fume so.
“This is her ring that I wear—this plain gold, the only ring I ever had; she put it on my finger and asked me to be good to Cephas. He wouldn’t take it back. But isn’t it your bed-time, Deary?”
“I wish I might brush your hair,” said Judith, slipping off the high bed.
But a door creaked, was flung wide open; a night-capped head appeared in the opposite doorway.
“_You_ up, Judith Grey Mackenzie. Go right up to bed this minute. It’s just like you, and it’s more like Affy. No wonder I couldn’t sleep with voices in the house at this unearthly hour. There! It’s striking nine o’clock. Affy, _you_ go to bed.”