in the old rocker. Around her eyes were dark shadows of weariness, and
she was very pale.

"How good the air feels," she murmured, and laid her head back against
the cushion with a sigh.

Anne's heart smote her. "Aren't you feeling well, Judy?" she asked,
timidly.

"I'm never well," Judy said, slowly. "I'm tired, tired to death, Anne."

Anne set the little blue bowls at the places, softly. She had never
felt tired in her life, nor sick. "Wouldn't you like a glass of milk?"
she asked, "and not wait until lunch is ready? It might do you good."

"I hate milk," said Judy.

Anne sat down helplessly and looked at the weary figure opposite. "I
am afraid you won't have much for lunch," she quavered, at last. "We
haven't anything but bread and milk."

"I don't want any lunch," said Judy, listlessly. "Don't worry about
me, Anne."

But Anne went to the cupboard and brought out a precious store of peach
preserves, and dished them in the little glass saucers that had been
among her grandmother's wedding things. Then she cut the bread in thin
slices and brought in a pitcher of milk.

"Why don't you have some flowers on the table?" said Judy. "Flowers