“Why, Judy Jameson.”  Anne turned an amazed hot face towards her.  “Why, Judy, you wouldn’t like to pull teeth, would you?”

“It isn’t what we like to do, Ruskin says,” said Judy, calmly, “it’s usefulness that counts.”

“Oh, well, I can wash dishes and dust and take care of old people and pets,” said placid Anne, opening the cover of the popper and letting out delicious whiffs of hot corn.

Judy shuddered.  “I hate those things,” she said.  “I couldn’t wash dishes, Anne.  It is so dreadful for your hands.”

She went back to her book, and Anne poured the hot corn into a big bowl and salted it.

“Have some?” she asked the absorbed reader.

Without taking her eyes from her book, Judy stretched out her hand, then all at once she flashed a glance into the rosy face so close to her own.

“Anne,” she said, almost humbly, “do you know you are more of a Ruskin girl than I am?  He says that every girl, every day, should do something really useful about the house—­go into the kitchen, and sew, and learn how to fold table-cloths, and things, like that.  And you know all of those things—­and how to help the poor—­and I—­I am always trying to do some great thing, and I never really help any one.  Not any one, Anne—­not a single soul—­”

“But you are so clever,” said little Anne.

“But people don’t love you just because you are clever, and it isn’t clever people that make others the happiest,” and Judy dropped her book and gazed deep into the flames as if seeking there an answer to the problems of life.

“People love you, Judy.”

“Sometimes they do, and some people—­but my awful temper, Anne,” and Judy sighed.

“You don’t flare up half as much as you used.”  Anne’s tone was consoling.  She had finished popping the corn, and she sat down on the floor beside the couch on which Judy lay, and munched the crisp kernels luxuriously.

“No, I don’t,” confessed Judy, “but it’s an awful fight, Anne.  You have helped me a lot.”

“Me?” asked the rosy maiden in astonishment.  “Why, how have I helped you, Judy?”

“By your example, Annekins,” said Judy, sitting up.  “You’re such a dear.”

At which praise the rosy maiden got rosier than ever, and shook her loosened hair over her happy eyes.

The firelight flickered on the beautiful dark face on the cushions, and on the fair little one that rested against Judy’s dress.

“We are such friends, aren’t we, Judy?” whispered Anne, as she reached up and curled her plump hand into Judy’s slender fingers.  “Almost like sisters, aren’t we, Judy?”

“Just like sisters, Annekins,” said Judy, dreamily, with a responsive pressure.

Outside the wind moaned and groaned, and the rain beat against the panes.  “I have never seen such a rainy season,” said Judy, as a blast shook the house.  “But I rather like it when we are so cozy and warm and happy, Anne.”