JUDITH'S GIFT
Continued from page 9
search at the house, when a lone squirrel scampered by with a pine nut for his stores. She watched him—he went into a hollow tree. She followed, idly curious—and there was the camera, put away, possibly, by one of the hands and then forgotten.
Judith ran back to the house and stole up to the darkroom. She and Helen had had the kodak craze together as they had the measles, and she could develop the films very readily. If only they would corroborate Helen's story! She went to work—and two hours later had a dozen splendid films, each showing a different view of a man and a maid, gipsying together in the woods. Helen appeared radiant with young life. She was hatless, and her wilful hair flew about her merry face. She typified joyous abandonment to a nature mood. The man was more sober of mien: but he was hopelessly the indulgent bridegroom, bent on pleasing. The last picture, the one of the drowning, showed his head perfectly, and a hand clutching at the decayed canoe.
Judith, all excitement, didn't wait to print the pictures; but slipped the films carefully into a white photographic envelop, which she crowded into her bag, then crept softly downstairs. Helen was still asleep.
SHE was almost the only passenger on the little grocery boat; so she had the cabin to herself. Across her copy paper flew her swift, coarse editor's pencil, as she pictured this crowning happy day of days for the young married pair, when, to please his bride, the man had arranged all sorts of pictures, his zeal reaching its climax in the river scene, which, through some strange miscalculation of rocks or rapids, had proved fatal. Judith told the story simply, directly, convincingly. It was the best work she had ever done. It saved Helen.
It was late when she reached town. The streets were full of tardy Christmas shoppers hurrying home under umbrellas with full arms and happy faces; but Judith had no time to think of Christmas. The story must be in, the films printed, the halftones made for the morning paper. It meant everything to have your story first. You could never successfully change a wrong impression.
The editor was waiting. Tonight he looked tired and depressed. There had been a big Christmas annual to get out with a colored supplement, and he had had his worries. He merely held out his hand for the story. Judith gave it to him, then began to tug at the thick white envelop in her bag.
"My Christmas present?" he asked with languid interest, and an effort at a smile as he saw the flat envelop.
His Christmas present! Judith had forgotten all about her promise. But what could be better than this,—the proof of Helen's white soul? A moment and the color left her face as the real meaning of it all swept over her with fresh poignancy; then she smiled bravely and lifted her proud, pointed little chin:
"Yes—your Christmas present!" She was gone.Another Judith Story will appear in an early issue.
