“Patsy dear,” said Judy soberly, “there’s a favor I’d be asking ye. Will ye be saying that liddle hymn ivery night whin ye say yer prayers…the one where it does be mintioning ‘those in peril on the say.’ It’d be a rale comfort to me on the bounding dape. Well, me trunk’s packed, thank the Good Man Above. Sure and I knew a woman that tuk four trunks wid her whin she wint to the Ould Country. I’m not knowing how she stud it. Iverything do be ready but what if something’ll be previnting me from going at the last minute, Patsy? I’m that built up on it I cudn’t be standing it.”

“Nothing will happen to prevent you, Judy. You’ll have a splendid trip and a lovely visit with all your cousins.”

“I’m hoping it, girl dear. But I’ve been seeing so minny disappointments in life. And, Patsy dear, kape an eye on Gintleman Tom, will ye and see that Mrs. Puddleduck don’t be imposing on him. I’m not knowing how the poor baste will be doing widout me.”

“Don’t worry, Judy. I’ll look after him…if he doesn’t go and disappear as he did the last time you were away from home.”

Pat lingered a little while that evening on the back-stair landing looking out of the round window. There was a promise of gathering storm. A peevish wind was tormenting the boughs of the aspen poplar. Scudding clouds seemed to sweep the tips of the silver birches. Soon the rain would be falling on the dark autumn fields. But even a wild wet night like this would have been delightful at Silver Bush if her heart had been lighter. Judy would be gone by this time tomorrow night and Mrs. Puddleduck would be reigning in her stead. No Judy to come home to…no Judy to give you “liddle bites”…no Judy to stir pea soup…no Judy to slip in on cold nights with the eiderdown puff off the Poet’s bed.

“And what,” said Gentleman Tom on the step above, “is a poor cat to do?”

Long Alec took Judy to the station next morning through a drizzling rain. She was going to Summerside to spend the night at Uncle Brian’s and take the boat train with the Pattersons the next day. Everybody stood at the gate and waved her off, smiling gallantly till the car was out of sight. Pat turned back to the kitchen where Mrs. Puddleduck was already making a cake and looking quite at home.

“I hate her,” thought Pat, wildly and unjustly.

Dinner…the first meal without Judy…was a sorry affair. The soup of Mrs. Puddleduck was not the soup of Judy Plum.

“She doesn’t know how to stir the brew,” Tillytuck whispered to Pat.