any secrets to hide from any eye. She again considered the probability of her aunt having removed it, and then it occurred to her that perhaps Miss Trevisa might have supposed that she—Judith—in a fit of revolt against the wretchedness of her life might be induced to take the poison herself and finish her miseries. "It was absurd if Aunt Dunes thought that," said Judith to herself; "she can little have known how my dear Papa's teaching has sunk into my heart, to suppose me capable of such a thing—and then—to run away like a coward and leave Jamie unprotected. It was too absurd."
Next morning Judith was in her room getting a large needle with which to hem a bit of carpet edge that had been fraying for the last five years, and which no one had thought of putting a thread to, and so arresting the disintegration. Jamie was in the room. Judith said to him:
"My dear, you have not been skinning and stuffing any birds lately, have you?"
"No, Ju."
"Because I have missed—but, Jamie, I hope you have not been at my workbox?"
"What about your workbox, Ju?"
She knew the boy so well, that her suspicions were at once aroused by this answer. When he had nothing to hide he replied with a direct negative or affirmative, but when he had done what his conscience would not quite allow was right, he fell into equivocation, and shuffled awkwardly.
"Jamie," said Judith, looking him straight in the face, "have you been to my box?"
"Only just looked in."
Then he ran to the window. "Oh, do see, Ju, how patched the glass is with foam!—and is it not dirty?"
"Jamie, come back. I want an answer."
He had opened the casement and put his hand out and was wiping off the patches of froth.
"What a lot of it there is, Ju."
"Come here, instantly, Jamie, and shut the window." The boy obeyed, creeping toward her sideways, with his head down.
"Jamie, did you lift the tray?"
"Only on one side, just a little bit."
"Did you take anything from under the tray?"
