tunity was not long in presenting itself. It was twelve o'clock before we had finished breakfast, and then my cousin took possession of a novel, and I of the "Journal de St. Pétersbourg," and we sat down in front of the wood-fire in the library.
I cast many a sly glance at Judith before I gained courage to begin. She had on a brown stuff dress, and the toe of one pretty bronze slipper protruded an inch or two beyond her skirt. Her smooth braids and the rounded outline of one soft cheek were all I could see. She looked so dainty and sweet that I did not wonder that everybody wanted to marry her.
I watched the clock nervously, and saw that if I did not soon begin, Tom would make his noisy entry, and Grace would come in from her drive. So I said, in a low, meek voice, "Do you feel tired this morning?"
As I had already asked her that question once, she looked slightly surprised, but laid the book down in her lap, and said pleasantly, "Not very. Do you?"
How different she is from me, I thought,—how very, very different! I never can bear to be interrupted when I am reading, and never can answer any one pleasantly under such circumstances. How sweet-tempered Judith is, and what a contrast I must be! This thought saddened me, and I did not feel inclined to proceed; but as she seemed waiting for something more, I resumed the conversation and answered, "No." Then, growing sarcastic, "But I did not have such overwhelming attentions paid me as you did."
Judith turned a pair of laughing, mischievous eyes
