"I'm awf'ly sorry, Judy," he said gently, "but the others are
all out. Wouldn't I do? I'd do anything, Judy please."
Judy disregarded the little sniffle that accompanied the last
words, and turned her face to the wall.
Two big tears trickled down again.
"They MIGHT have stayed in," she said with a sob. "They might
have known I should try to come. Where are they?"
"Pip's gone fishing," he said, "and Nell's carrying the basket
for him. And Baby's at the Courtneys', and Esther's gone to town
with the General. Oh, and Meg's ill in bed, because her stays were
too tight last night and she fainted."
"I suppose they haven't missed me a scrap," was her bitter
thought, when she heard how everything seemed going on as usual,
while she had been living through so much just to see them all.
Then the odd feeling of faintness came back, and she closed her
eyes again and lay motionless, forgetful of time, place, or hunger.
Bunty sped across the paddock on winged feet; the sight of his
father near the stables gave him a momentary shock, and brought
his own trouble to mind, but he shook it off again and hurried on.
The pantry door was locked. Martha, the cook, kept it in that
condition generally on account of his own sinful propensities
for making away with her tarts and cakes; it was only by
skilful stratagem he could ever get in, as he remembered
dejectedly.
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