that gave her no scope, allowed no scene such as her soul loved as long
as she could shine creditably....

She could not quite decide how to stage-manage her exit; but, whether
she went or not, Judy had to go back to her people--Judy who would bear
with her the slim little sheaf of poems she had written during her stay,
Judy sun-browned, almost more of the elf than the monkey. Killigrew had
settled to go the same day to accompany her on the tiresome journey, and
then he was for Paris again, his beloved Paris; he vowed that he should
burst if he stayed in England any longer. On the morning of the day
before Judy's departure Blanche, who, half-packed, was still trying to
make up her mind, received a letter that, with no sense of impiousness,
she considered providential.

Mrs. Penticost brought it in to her, between a red finger and thumb,
rather steamy from washing-up, and busied herself about the room while
her lodger read the closely-written pages. Mrs. Penticost was frankly
curious, and if Blanche did not tell her what was in that letter she
meant to find out by questioning her.

Blanche hardly noticed her presence; she was too rapt in the
providential happenings described to her by the garrulous pen of her
stepmother. The very crackle of the paper between her fingers gave her
fresh courage as she read. And yet it was a very simple letter, coming
as it did from the simple woman who she so often said had nothing in
common with herself.

* * * * *

"Dear Blanche," ran the letter, "I wonder how much longer you are going