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Updated: June 22, 2025
Judson's jewellery shop, but a newspaper man with I know not what ambitions and limitations in strength of body and will; how, many, many years afterward, she nursed him tenderly through a sickness and married him, is all told in a paragraph. Marry him she did, to take care of him, and told him so. She made no secret of the maternal in this love.
Judson or his ship for months; there were reports of ill-feeling between the Burmese and British Governments, no arrivals of English at Rangoon, and no intelligence. Mrs. Judson's female classes had fallen off ever since Mr. Hough's summons, and the state of things was such, that the Houghs decided on removing to Bengal. Mrs.
"Well," broke in Hephzibah, with decision, "I'm a Methodist, myself, and I don't expect to go to perdition." Judson's guns were spiked. He turned redder than ever and changed the subject to the weather. The remainder of the conversation was confined for the most part to Frances and the curate. They discussed the village and the people in it and the church and its activities.
Other presents had come to Cynthia from the hills: a gorgeous copy of Mr. Longfellow's poems from Cousin Ephraim, and a gold locket from Uncle Jethro. Judson's shop many years before, though the inscription "Cynthy, from Uncle Jethro," was within. Into the other side exactly fitted that daguerreotype of her mother which her father had given her when he died.
Coupled with unusual business cares was the story being quietly circulated regarding Judson's engagement. He had not thought how much his son's happiness could mean to him. "And yet, I let him go to discipline him. Oh, we are never wise enough to be fathers. It is only a mother who can understand," and the memory of the woman glorified to him now, the one love of all his years, came back to him.
"It ain't no use to try, boys, O'mie's down in the river where the cussed Copperheads put him; but you're good to keep tryin'." He sat down in a helpless resignation, so unlike his natural buoyant spirit it was hard to believe that this was the same Cam we had always known. "Judson's baby's to be buried to-day, but we can't even bury O'mie. Oh, it's cruel hard." Cam groaned in his chair.
"She shall have Judson's side straight from me first, and we'll depend on events for further statement," he declared to himself.
Along in August of that year came a week of low water. Judson's ditch failed and he went out with his rifle to learn why. There on the headgate sat Diedrick's frau with a long-handled shovel across her lap and all the water turned into Diedrick's ditch; there she sat knitting through the long sun, and the children brought out her dinner.
"Judson's baby died this mornin'. Judson he can't get across Fingal's Creek or some of the draws, to get home, and the fright last night was too much for Mis' Judson. She fainted away, an' when she come to, the baby was dead. I'm cookin' a good meal for all of 'em. Land knows, carin' for the little corpse is all they can do without botherin' to cook." Good Mrs.
How are the 'Guadala'?" "Mistook a ship of Her Majesty's navy for a slaver! You mistake any craft for a slaver! Bai Jove, sir, I've a good mind to hang you at the yard-arm!" There was nothing nearer that terrible spar than the walking-stick in the rack of Judson's cabin. The Governor looked at the one mast and smiled a deprecating smile. "The position is embarrassment," he said.
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