“Did you ever think, Judy, what an awful thing it is to be bad?  If you did, I think you would be so sorry for her, you could not hate her.”

At the same time, knowing what I knew now, and remembering that impressions can date from farther back than the memory can reach, I was not surprised to hear that Judy hated Sarah, though I could not believe that in such a child the hatred was of the most deadly description.

“I am afraid I must go on hating in the meantime,” said Judy.  “I wish some one would marry auntie, and turn Sarah away.  But that couldn’t be, so long as grannie lives.”

“How is Mr Stoddart?”

“There now!  That’s one of the things auntie said I was to be sure to tell you.”

“Then your aunt knew you were coming to see me?”

“Oh, yes, I told her.  Not grannie, you know.—­You mustn’t let it out.”

“I shall be careful.  How is Mr Stoddart, then?”

“Not well at all.  He was taken ill before you, and has been in bed and by the fireside ever since.  Auntie doesn’t know what to do with him, he is so out of spirits.”

“If to-morrow is fine, I shall go and see him.”

“Thank you.  I believe that’s just what auntie wanted.  He won’t like it at first, I daresay.  But he’ll come to, and you’ll do him good.  You do everybody good you come near.”

“I wish that were true, Judy.  I fear it is not.  What good did I ever do you, Judy?”

“Do me!” she exclaimed, apparently half angry at the question.  “Don’t you know I have been an altered character ever since I knew you?”

And here the odd creature laughed, leaving me in absolute ignorance of how to interpret her.  But presently her eyes grew clearer, and I could see the slow film of a tear gathering.

“Mr Walton,” she said, “I have been trying not to be selfish.  You have done me that much good.”

“I am very glad, Judy.  Don’t forget who can do you all good.  There is One who can not only show you what is right, but can make you able to do and be what is right.  You don’t know how much you have got to learn yet, Judy; but there is that one Teacher ever ready to teach if you will only ask Him.”

Judy did not answer, but sat looking fixedly at the carpet.  She was thinking, though, I saw.

“Who has played the organ, Judy, since your uncle was taken ill?” I asked, at length.

“Why, auntie, to be sure.  Didn’t you hear?”

“No,” I answered, turning almost sick at the idea of having been away from church for so many Sundays while she was giving voice and expression to the dear asthmatic old pipes.  And I did feel very ready to murmur, like a spoilt child that had not had his way.  Think of her there, and me here!

“Then,” I said to myself at last, “it must have been she that played I know that my Redeemer liveth, that last time I was in church!  And instead of thanking God for that, here I am murmuring that He did not give me more!  And this child has just been telling me that I have taught her to try not to be selfish.  Certainly I should be ashamed of myself.”