"Well, Susan, you get the room ready, and have the bed well aired, and tell me if there's anything more wanted—the child has been ill, and she'll require every comfort. Mrs. Quentyns will wish the room to look as nice as possible. I know nothing about these matters—see to it, Susan, will you?"

"Yes, sir; you may depend on me and cook to do everything right——"

"And tell cook about your mistress. Let me see, they'll be home between five and six on Saturday evening. I shan't dine at home to-night, and if a telegram comes for me, I want you to wire to my city address. This is it."

Quentyns left the house, and Susan and the cook spent a busy day in dusting, polishing, sweeping, and cleaning.

The little spare room looked very sweet and bright with the simple tasty furniture which Quentyns had chosen. The small bed was inviting in its white draperies. The furniture, painted in artistic greens, had a cool and young effect. The room looked like a child's room, and Susan and cook were in ecstasies over its appearance.

"Master 'ave taste and no mistake," said cook. "But why don't he come and look for 'isself at all we have done, Susan? So natty as everything looks, and the furniture master's taste and all. Won't missis be pleased! But why don't he come and say what he thinks of how we has put the things, Susan?"

"Never you mind," said Susan. "Master knows as the arranging of furniture is woman's province—there's no fussing in him, and that's what I likes him for."

Saturday arrived in due time, and the little house in Philippa Terrace was in apple-pie order.

As Quentyns was leaving for town that morning, Susan waylaid him.

"What hour shall I tell my missis that we may expect you home, sir?" she asked. "Mrs. Quentyns and the little lady will be here by six, and the very first thing my missis will ask is, when you are coming in."

"Say," began Quentyns—he paused. "I'll write a line," he said; "you can give it to your mistress. I shan't be in to dinner to-night, and cook had better prepare tea for Mrs. Quentyns and Miss Merton, with fish or chops or something of that sort. I'll write a line—I'm glad you reminded me, Susan."

Quentyns went into his tiny little study, and wrote a few hasty words.

"DEAR HILDA: I have some important work to get through to-night, and shall not be back early. I have the latch-key, so no one need sit up. I shall dine at the club with Rivers. Go to bed early if you are tired.

"Your Affectionate Husband."

This letter was handed to Hilda on her arrival. She was too excited and too interested in getting Judy into the house, and showing her all the pleasant arrangements made for her comfort, to read it at first; but when her tired little sister was safe in bed, and Hilda had seen her enjoying a cup of tea, with some toast and a new-laid country egg, then she took Jasper's note out of her pocket.

She was in her own room, and she hesitated for a moment before she opened it. She had a kind of premonition that there was pain in it. Her home-coming had made her happy, and even while she was opening the envelope of Jasper's letter she was listening for the click of his latch-key in the hall-door lock.

He was always home in good time on Saturdays, and surely he would make extra haste to-night in order to give his wife and his little sister a hearty welcome.

Hilda's was the most forgiving nature in the world. During that scene in the conservatory at Little Staunton she had lost her temper with her husband, but she felt quite sure now that her hasty words must be forgotten. As she forgave absolutely, so would he. Why had he written to her therefore? Why was he not here? She pulled the note out of its envelope, and read the few words that it contained.

It is not too much to say that her heart sank down, down, very low indeed in her breast. She became conscious for the first time in her life of that heart-hunger, that absolute starved sort of ache which had so nearly wrecked Judy's little life. This was the first pang of pain, but the ache was to go on and become worse presently.

Hilda was a very patient sort of woman, however, and it did not occur to her to cry out or make a fuss. She read the note twice, then put it into her pocket and went downstairs.

"Tell cook that I don't want any dinner," she said to Susan; "I will have my tea upstairs with Miss Judy. Tell her not to get dinner, as Mr. Quentyns is obliged to be out this evening."

"Hilda," called Judy's weak little voice from out of her luxurious white bed; "Hilda, do come here a minute."

Hilda went immediately into the room.

"I am so happy and so sleepy," said Judy. "I'm like a bird in a nest—oh, I am so snug. Jasper will be coming in presently, won't he, Hilda? and you'll want to be with him. I shan't need you at all to-night, Hilda darling; I'm going to sleep very soon, and I just sent for you now to say that you mustn't come up to me after dinner—you must stay with Jasper and let him amuse you. I am sure you want lots of amusement after all the dull nursing you have had. Go and put on your pretty dinner dress now, Hilda, and then come and look at me and say good-night. I am so awfully happy, and I just want one kiss from you before I go to sleep."

"But you don't want to go to sleep yet, little puss," said Hilda, in her most cheerful tone; "at least I hope you don't until I have had my tea. I want to have my tea with you, darling, so I hope you don't mind putting up with my company for a little longer."

"As if I could mind—you know better. But, Hilda, if you have tea now you won't be hungry for your dinner."

Judy puckered her dark brows with anxiety.

"I'm not going to have dinner."

"You aren't—not really! then what will Jasper say?"

"I've had a little letter from Jasper, darling; he is obliged to be out late on business, and won't dine at home to-night. Ah, here comes Susan with another new-laid egg for me, and some fresh toast. Now I am going to have a delightful little supper in your company, Judy, and then I shall settle you for the night."

Hilda talked faster than was her wont; there was an additional rose-color in her pretty cheeks, and a brighter light than usual in her soft brown eyes. She laughed and jested and made merry over her egg and toast.

"How pretty you look!" said Judy, with a heart-whole sigh of admiration and content.

She saw nothing wrong, and Hilda kissed her and left the room a few minutes later.

She was still wearing her heavy traveling-dress, but after a moment's reflection she went into her bedroom, and quickly changed it for a pale silk dress of the softest shade of rose. This dress was a special favorite of her husband's; he used to liken her to a rosebud in it, and said that no color more truly matched the soft tender bloom of her young face.

Hilda put on the rose silk now, arranged her dark hair picturesquely, and going downstairs to the little drawing room, occupied herself for an hour or more in giving it some of those delicate touches which make the difference between the mistress of the house being at home and away.

It was a very warm evening for the time of year, but Hilda had a fire lit in the grate. The shaded lamp shed a softened golden glow in its accustomed corner of the room, and Jasper's favorite chair was placed ready for his reception; then Hilda sank down into her own easy-chair, and taking up a book, tried to read.

Susan came presently into the room.

"Oh, Susan," said her mistress, "I was about to ring for you. It has struck ten o'clock; you and cook are to go to bed, please; I will wait up for Mr. Quentyns."

"If you please, ma'am," said Susan.

She stopped and hesitated.

"Yes, Susan?" answered Mrs. Quentyns, in a gentle interrogative tone.

"If you please, ma'am, master has been very late coming home when you was in the country—not till past midnight most nights."

"Thank you, Susan; but Mr. Quentyns will probably be in earlier to-night, and I wish to remain up. Go to bed, and tell cook to do the same. Oh, and please, I should like Miss Judy to have a cup of tea brought to her room at eight to-morrow morning. Good-night, Susan."

The parlor-maid withdrew.

"And don't she look beautiful as a pictur," she muttered under her breath. "Pore young lady, I doubt if she's pleased with master though. Him staying away and all on the first night as she comes back. I wouldn't set up for him ef I were her—no, that I wouldn't; I wouldn't make so little of myself; but she's proud, too, is Mrs. Quentyns, and she don't let on; no, not a bit. Well, I respect her for that, but I misdoubt me if all is right atween that pair."

Susan went upstairs to confide her suspicions to cook. They talked in low whispers together, and wondered what the mystery could be which was keeping Quentyns from his pretty wife's side.

In the meantime, in the silent house the moments for the one anxious watcher went slowly by. Her novel was not interesting—she let it fall on her knees, and looking at the little clock on the mantelpiece, counted the moments until eleven should strike. She quite expected that Jasper would be home at eleven. It did not enter for a moment into her calculations that he could be absent on this first night of her return beyond that hour. When the eleven musical strokes sounded on the little clock, and were echoed in many deeper booms from without, she got up, and opening the drawing-room door, stepped out into the little hall.

Footsteps kept passing and passing in the street. Cabs kept rolling up to other doors and rolling away again. Jasper must surely arrive at any moment.

Hilda softly opened the hall door, and standing on the steps, looked up and down the gas-lit street. If Jasper were walking home he would see her. The lamp light from within threw her slim figure into strong relief. A man passing by stopped for an instant to look at her.

Hilda shut the hall door hastily in fear and distress. The man had looked as if he might say something rude. She returned to her little drawing room, and sitting down by the dying fire stared fixedly into its embers until her eyes were full of tears.

Between twelve and one Quentyns let himself softly into the house with his latch-key. He was immediately attracted by the light in the drawing room, the door of which was slightly ajar. He came into the room at once, to find Hilda lying back in her easy-chair, fast asleep. She was looking pale—all her pretty roses had fled. Quentyns' first impulse was to fold her in his arms in an embrace of absolute love and reconciliation.

What a pity it is that we don't oftener yield to our first impulses, for they are as a rule whispered to us by our good angels.

Quentyns bent forward, and lightly, very lightly, touched the sleeper's soft hair with his big hand. That touch was a caress, but it startled Hilda, who woke up with a cry.

"Oh, Jasper," she said, looking at him with alarm in her eyes, "you—you are home! I didn't mean to go to sleep, and—what is it, Jasper?"

"Kiss me, Hilda; I am glad you have returned," said Quentyns. "But another night, if I should happen to be late, you must not sit up for me—I hate being waited for."



CHAPTER XIV.

THE LITTLE RIFT.

No backward path; ah! no returning; No second crossing that ripple's flow: Come to me now for the mist is burning: Come ere it darkens; Ah, no; ah, no!

—JEAN INGELOW.

Jasper Quentyns was quite certain that he was behaving admirably under circumstances of a specially trying nature.

Judy's advent in the house gave him no small annoyance. Hilda's behavior about Judy, her fit of sudden passion, above all the relinquishing of her engagement ring, had cut him to the quick. He was proud, sensitive, and jealous; when, therefore, he could smile at Judy and chat in light and pleasant tones to his wife, when he could remark on the furniture in the spare room, and make many suggestions for the comfort of the little sister-in-law whom he detested, he was under the impression that his conduct was not only exemplary but Christian.

It was true that he went out a good deal in the evenings, not taking Hilda with him as had been his original intention, but leaving her at home to enjoy the society of the child who had brought the first cloud into his home.

"I am going to dine out to-night, Hilda," he would say. "A man I know particularly well has asked me. Afterward he and I may go to the theater together. You won't mind of course being left, as you have Judy with you?"

"Oh, no, dear!" she replied, on the first of these occasions; and when Jasper came to say something of this sort two or three times a week, Hilda's invariable gentle answer was always that she did not mind.

Jasper was kind—kindness itself, and if she did feel just a trifle afraid of him, and if she could not help knowing all over her heart that the sun did not shine now for her, that there was a cloud between her husband and herself, which she could neither brush away nor penetrate, she made no outward sign of being anything different from the cheery and affectionate Hilda of old. There were subjects now, however, which she shrank from touching on in Jasper's presence. One of them was her engagement ring, another the furniture in Judy's room. That ring she had been told by more than one connoisseur was worth at least fifty pounds, and Hilda was certain that the simple furniture which made Judy's little room so bower-like and youthful could not have cost anything approaching that sum. Still Jasper said nothing about giving her change out of the money which he had spent, and Hilda feared to broach the subject of the ring to him. Another topic which by a sort of instinct she refrained from was Judy herself. When Jasper was in the house Hilda was always glad when Judy retired to her own room. When the gay little voice, happy now, and clear and sweet as a lark's, was heard singing snatches of gay songs all over the house, if Jasper were there, Hilda would carefully close the door of the room he was sitting in.

"Not now, Judy darling," she would say, when the child bounded eagerly into their presence. "Jasper is just going out—when he is out I will attend to you. Go on with your drawing in the dining room until I come to you, Judy."

Judy would go away at once obedient and happy, but Hilda's face would flush with anxiety, and her eyes would not meet her husband's. So between each of these young people there was that wall of reserve which is the sad beginning of love's departure; but Hilda, being the weaker of the two and having less to occupy her thoughts, suffered more than Jasper.

On a certain evening when Judy had been a happy resident of No. 10 Philippa Terrace for over a month, Quentyns was about to leave his office and to return home, when his friend Tom Rivers entered his room.

"Have you any engagement for to-night, Quentyns?" he asked abruptly.

"None," said Jasper, visible relief on his face, for he was beginning to dislike the evenings which he spent with a wife who always had a sense of constraint over her, and with the knowledge that Judy's presence was only tolerated when he was by. "I am at your service, Tom," said Jasper. "Do you want me to go anywhere with you?"

Rivers was a great deal older than Quentyns, he was a very clever and practical man of the world. He looked now full at Jasper. He had not failed to observe the eager relief on his friend's face when he asked if he had any engagement. To a certain extent Jasper had made Rivers his confidant. He had told him that Hilda's little sister, who had been so ill and had given them all such a fright, was staying now at Philippa Terrace.

Rivers shrewdly guessed that Hilda's little sister was scarcely a welcome guest, as far as Quentyns was concerned. Rivers had taken a fancy to pretty Mrs. Quentyns. With a quick mental survey he saw again the picture of the young wife on the night when he had dined at Philippa Terrace.

"She did not look perfectly happy," he thought. "I hope Quentyns is good to her. I seldom saw a more charming face than hers, but with such eyes, so full of expression, so full of that sort of dumb, dog-like affectionateness, she must, she will suffer horribly if there comes a cloud between her husband and herself. Quentyns is the best of fellows, but he can be dogged and obstinate—I hope to goodness there's nothing up in that pretty little home of theirs."

Aloud Rivers said abruptly, "I had thought of asking you to dine at the club with me, and then we might have gone to see Irving in Henry VIII.,—a friend has given me two stalls,—but on second thoughts I can dispose of those tickets. What I should really like best is to come home with you, Quentyns, and have the pleasure of another chat with your wife. I want to hear you both sing too—I seldom heard two voices better suited to go together. May I invite myself to dinner to-night, Jasper?"

"Oh, certainly," said Jasper, after a moment's awkward hesitation. "I'll just wire to Hilda, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," said Rivers; "but remember, I am coming to take pot-luck."

Jasper ran off to the nearest telegraph office.

Rivers saw that his proposal was anything but welcome, but for that very reason he was determined to carry it out.

An hour later he found himself standing in the pretty drawing room in Philippa Terrace, talking to the most charming little girl he had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Quentyns had run up at once to his room, and Hilda had not yet put in an appearance, but Judy, who was sitting on a sofa reading "Sylvie and Bruno," jumped up at once and came forward in her shy but self-possessed little way to meet her sister's guest.

"How do you do?" she said. "Where would you like to sit?"

"I prefer standing, thank you," said Rivers. He smiled at Judy and held out his hand. "So you are the young mutineer," he said suddenly.

Judy's big eyes looked up at him in surprise—she was dressed in a green silk frock, with a broad golden-brown sash round her waist. Her dress was cut rather low in the neck, and she had several rows of golden-brown beads round her throat. The quaint dress suited the quaint but earnest little face.

"What do you mean by calling me such a queer name?" said Judy.

"I am a great friend of your brother-in-law's," said Rivers, now dropping into a chair and drawing the child toward him, "and he has told me all about you—you mutinied when Mrs. Quentyns went away—it was very wrong of you, very wrong indeed."

"You can't judge anything about it," said Judy, the sensitive color coming into her face; "you are on Jasper's side, so you can't know."

"Of course I'm on Jasper's side, he's an excellent fellow, and a great friend of mine."

"I don't like him," said Judy; "it isn't to be expected I should."

"Of course not, you wouldn't be a mutineer if you did."

"I wish you wouldn't call me by that horrid name," said Judy. "I can't quite understand what it means, but I'm sure it's disagreeable."

"A mutineer is always a disagreeable person," continued Rivers, looking with his pleasant eyes full at the child. "He is in a state of rebellion, you know. People aren't nice when they rebel against the inevitable."

"What's the inevitable?" asked Judy.

"The inevitable!" repeated Rivers. "The inevitable," he continued gravely, "is what has to be met because it cannot be avoided. The inevitable stands directly in a person's path; he can't go round it, he can't jump over it, he has just to meet it bravely and make the best friend he possibly can of it."

"Oh," said Judy, "that sounds like a fairy tale. Babs and I love fairy tales, particularly the old, old ones—the Jack the Giant Killer sort—you understand?"

"Jack the Giant Killer had lots of inevitables to meet," pursued Rivers.

"Yes, of course," said Judy; "now I know what you mean as far as dear Jack was concerned, but I don't know what you mean about me."

"Well, you see, Miss Judy—you don't mind my calling Jasper's little sister Miss Judy?"

"Oh, don't talk of him," said Judy, a frown between her brows.

"But I must if I'm to explain my meaning to you, for he's the inevitable."

"Now what do you mean?—you're the most puzzling sort of grown-up person I ever met!"

"And you're the most intelligent sort of little person I ever met. Now let me explain matters to you. Your sister is very pretty, isn't she?"

"Pretty?" said Judy meditatively—"pretty is such a common sort of word—if you call flowers pretty, Hilda is, I suppose, but she's much, much more than pretty."

"I understand. I'm quite sure I understand you perfectly. And your sister is good too, and sweet?"

"Oh, yes!" Judy's eyes filled with tears, she blinked her eyelashes and looked out of the window.

"Well, now," said Rivers, and his voice was quite tender, for Judy's manner and attitude touched him wonderfully. "Well, now, you see it was inevitable that some man should love a woman like your sister, and want to make her his wife, and wish to take her altogether to himself. It was inevitable, also, that a woman with a gentle heart like Mrs. Quentyns should love this man in return and want to devote her life to him."

"Don't!" said Judy, suddenly; "I understand you now, I don't want you to say another word." She crossed over to the window and stood there with her back to Rivers, looking gravely out.

Hilda came down in her rose-colored silk, and Rivers did not wonder that Judy thought of the flowers when she looked at her.

Hilda was unfeignedly glad to see him, and they had a pleasanter evening than any since Judy's advent in Philippa Terrace. Rivers paid a great deal of attention to the smallest and youngest member of the party, and not only completely won Hilda's heart by so doing, but induced Quentyns to look at his little sister-in-law with new eyes, and to discover for the first time, that under certain conditions that wistful little face could be both lovely and charming.

"Remember about the inevitable," said Rivers, as he bade the child good-night.

"What did Mr. Rivers mean, Judy?" said Hilda. "Oh, Judy, what flushed cheeks!—I did wrong to let you sit up, but you seemed so happy—you seemed to take such a fancy to Mr. Rivers."

"He was disagreeable to me—very disagreeable," said Judy, "but I liked him."

"And what did he mean by reminding you of the inevitable?" continued Hilda.

"It was in that way he was disagreeable," replied Judy. "I can't explain, Hilda darling; good-night—I am going to bed now."

That evening, in their own room, Hilda came suddenly to her husband's side.

"Jasper, don't you think you might forget about it now?" she said timidly.

"Forget about what, Hilda?" He had been genial and pleasant until she began to speak; now his face stiffened in every outline, and the look came over it which always took poor Hilda's courage away.

"We were so happy to-night," she began in a faltering voice—"we had quite the best evening we have had since——" here she hesitated.

"Since Judy came," pursued Jasper. "Yes, that goes without saying, there were four of us—even the dearest friends are dull when there are three, and of course Rivers is capital company, he's quite the best fellow all round I ever met."

"Oh, yes!" said Hilda, a little impatiently, "but I don't want to talk of him. Jasper dear, let us forget, let us—oh, let us be as we were before."

Tears choked her voice, she turned her head away.

"I am so tired," she said suddenly; "I am the sort of girl who wants sunshine, I am so tired of being without it."

"When you talk in that metaphorical style I fail to understand you," said Quentyns. "There's not the least cloud between us that I am aware of, and if you are not in the sunshine, Hilda, I am afraid it is your own fault. I have done everything in my power to meet your wishes. You profess great love for me, and great love for your sister, and now you have us both, what can you possibly want besides?"

"Only your forgiveness, your complete and full forgiveness."

"I have nothing to forgive, my dear. You do your best—no one can do better than their best."

"No," said poor Hilda, with a sigh. She did not add any more.

"I trust you are not going to turn into a fanciful sort of woman," said Quentyns, half an hour later. "If there's a person in the world who irritates me it's a woman with whims, a woman who has a grievance."

"Oh, no, Jasper! I won't have a grievance," she replied humbly.



CHAPTER XV.

THREE IS TRUMPERY.

The crown must be won for Heaven, dear, In the battle-field of life: My child, though thy foes are strong and tried, He loveth the weak and small; The Angels of Heaven are on thy side, And God is over all!

—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

Judy's life was sunshine, and therefore Judy got quickly well; she was like the birds and the flowers—give her sunshine enough, and she would sing like the birds and bloom like the flowers. Hilda was her sun, and now she was always basking herself in the beloved presence. Her cup of happiness was full, and such contentment reigned in her little heart that no moment was dull to her, and time never hung heavy on her hands.

Hilda was just as sweet and loving as of old, and really, now that she lived in the house with him, Jasper, her bete noire, the awful big brother-in-law who had come and stolen her treasure away, seemed to make but little difference in her life; it was almost nicer being with Hilda in London than being with Hilda at the old Rectory—she seemed to get more undivided attention from her sister than when that sister was the Rector's right hand in his busy life, and when Judy had to learn lessons with Babs, and walk with stupid, non-comprehending Miss Mills.

Now Judy learned rapidly, for Hilda was her teacher; and how delightful that lunch was which was also Judy's early dinner, when she and her sister sat tete-a-tete, and talked always, always of old times.

If visitors dropped in at tea-time Judy could afford, in her generous happiness, to give them a little of her fascinating Hilda's attention, for so often now there were heavenly evenings to follow, when that bete noire the brother-in-law was not coming home, and the two sisters could be alone.

Judy loved the cozy sort of tea-dinners which began those evenings, and then the long talk afterward in the lengthening twilight, when she sat on a stool at Hilda's feet, with her head pressed up against Hilda's arm, and her happy heart beating close to the other heart, which was all her world.

On those evenings too Hilda came upstairs and tucked her up in her white bed, and said, Now I lay me down to sleep to her, just as she used in the old nursery at home, after mother died.

It was an understood thing, although no words had passed between the two—it was an understood thing, that on the evenings when Jasper was at home, Hilda should not come upstairs to Judy. This seemed a perfectly fair and just arrangement, they were both in full accord on the subject; but Judy could not help loving those days when she might have her sister all to herself the best.

On the morning after Rivers had dined in Philippa Terrace, as Jasper was preparing to go out as usual, Hilda ran into the little hall to give him a last word; she left the door of the dining room ajar, which was not her invariable custom, and Judy, sitting at the breakfast table, found herself in the position of an eavesdropper.

"You are coming back to dinner to-night?" asked the wife.

Jasper had been visited with some slight qualms of compunction that morning, as he noticed how much paler Hilda's face was than when first he had married her, so he put his arm round her neck now, and looking at her with something of his old tenderness, said gently:

"Do you really wish it?"

"Jasper, how can you doubt?" she replied. "All the moments you are away from me are long and wearisome."

"Long and wearisome," repeated Judy softly to herself in the breakfast parlor. Some of the color fled out of her face now; she lost her appetite for the bread-and-butter and marmalade which she was eating.

"You don't find three trumpery," pursued Jasper. Then he added with a little sigh, "I wish I didn't; but I'll come home, Hilda, if you wish it. Good-by, my dear. Stay, stop a moment; suppose I take you to the play to-night. Judy won't mind going to bed a little earlier than usual."

Just at that moment Hilda started and looked round; she heard a slight noise, and wondered if Susan were coming upstairs. The sound which disturbed her was made by Judy, who, awaking suddenly to the knowledge that she was an eavesdropper, had risen from the breakfast table and had gently closed the dining-room door.

"Of course Judy doesn't mind being left," said Hilda in a joyful tone. "I should love to go out somewhere with you, Jasper. I really do want a little bit of change."

"Very well, my love; I'll take tickets for something amusing, and be home to dinner at six."

Quentyns went out, and Hilda danced back to the dining room. Her husband had been kind, with something of the old tender kindness, and her heart leaped up like a flower answering to the sun.

Judy was standing by the window looking out.

"Isn't it a lovely day, pet?" said Hilda, coming up to her. "Suppose we give ourselves a holiday, and go to the Academy together. I have not been there yet this year, and you have never been in all your life, puss. You know how you love pictures; fancy room after room full of pictures—all sorts, good, bad, and indifferent; all colors in them; all sorts of subjects depicted on the canvases. There's a treat for my little artist—shall I give it her?"

"Yes, Hilda, I'd like to go with you very much."

"Are you tired, dear, your face is so grave?"

"No, darling, I'm not at all tired."

"Well, we'll give ourselves a holiday. Run up and put on your pretty green cloak, and that big black hat with the green velvet. I want you to look as picturesque as possible. I want to be proud of you."

Judy suddenly flew to Hilda, clasped her arms round her neck, gave her a passionate hug, and then rushed out of the room.

"What's the matter with the child?" thought the elder sister for a brief moment, "she was so bright yesterday, and even this morning, but now she's dull, although she tries to hide it. I wonder if I ought to give her some more of her tonic. Well, well, whether Judy is grave or gay, I cannot help feeling very happy at the thought of going out with Jasper once more."

Hilda gave all directions with regard to the nice little dinner which was to precede the play. She found a story book which Judy had not yet read, and left it in the drawing room ready for her entertainment when she was away; then, dressed also in her best, she went out with her little sister, and, calling a hansom from the nearest stand, drove to Burlington House.

As usual the great exhibition was crowded with all sorts and conditions of men—the fashionable, the studious, the artistic, the ignorant, were all to be found there. Judy had a passion for art. She was an artist by nature, down to the tips of her sensitive little fingers. No sooner did she find herself in the midst of all the pictures, than whatever cloud made her a little graver than usual took to itself wings and flew away.

Her pertinent remarks, her eager criticism, shrewd, observant, often strangely to the point, aroused the attention of some of the bystanders; they smiled as the pretty child and the beautiful girl walked slowly by together. Judy's intelligent face was commented on; the pathetic, eager, wistful eyes seemed to make their way to more than one heart. Hilda, thinking of her evening with Jasper, was quite her old self, and people thought what a happy pair the two were.

In the third room they suddenly came face to face with Rivers.

"What a bit of luck!" he said, going up at once to them. "Now, Mrs. Quentyns, I shall insist upon taking you to lunch somewhere. Miss Judy, how are you? what do you think of our national picture fair?"

"Some of the pictures are lovely," she replied.

"Some!" he retorted, raising his brows. "You don't mean to say you are setting yourself up as a critic."

"Judy is an artist by nature," said Hilda for her. "Hark to her remarks with regard to the two dogs in that picture."

"They are meant to move, but they are perfectly still," said Judy; "if I drew them, I'd"—she puckered her brows—"oh, I'd see that they were gamboling about."

A young man, who was standing not far off, turned away with a red face—he happened to be the unfortunate artist. Bitter hatred of Judy filled his heart, for some of the people who were standing near tittered aloud, and remarked for the first time that the dogs were wooden.

Rivers walked with Mrs. Quentyns and Judy through the different rooms: he was an art connoisseur himself, and even dabbled in paint in a dilettante sort of fashion. He drew Judy on to make remarks, laughed and quizzed her for some ideas which he considered in advance of the times, for others which were altogether too antiquated for him to pass unchallenged.

"Oh, how Stanmore would like to hear you," he remarked, naming one of the pet artists of the New Art school. "Why, Judy, you are a democrat; we should have no Academy if we listened to you, you little rebel; but then, I forgot, of course you are a mutineer—you are true to your character through everything."

Hilda scarcely listened as the young man and the child chatted and laughed together, her heart was dwelling altogether in the future. She fancied herself even now driving to the play by her husband's side; she saw the pretty dress she meant to wear; in her mind was reflected as in a picture the image of her fair self, and the image also of the man who was still in her heart lover as well as husband. No matter for the present cloud, he was still her lover. She wondered if he would give her another tender glance, and if, as they sat side by side when the curtain was up and the actors were moving about on the stage, he would touch her hand with his, and show her in that way that she was forgiven.

"If he would only understand that I must keep both my vows," she murmured, "if I could only get him to really comprehend that much, much as I love my Judy, I would rather be alone with him—that is, I would rather be alone with him, if it makes him unhappy to have my sweet little Judy in the house. But how happy she is since I brought her home; how gay her voice sounds now."

"I said you were a mutineer," laughed Rivers. "I know by your manner that you will never put up with the inevitable."

"Don't!" said Judy; Hilda was looking at a lovely landscape, a friend she knew came up and spoke to her. "Don't!" said Judy, turning and looking full at the young man; her eyes were grave, her childish face grew suddenly white and drawn. "Perhaps I am going to give up being a mutineer," she murmured.



CHAPTER XVI.

A LITTLE GIRL AND A LITTLE CROSS.

Love that hath us in the net, Can he pass, and we forget? Many suns arise and set, Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is love the debt. Even so.

Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet, What is love? for we forget: Ah, no! no!

—TENNYSON.

Mrs. Quentyns and Judy enjoyed their lunch with Rivers. They went into the Park afterward for a short time, and then Hilda, remembering that the hours were flying, and that she must be dressed and ready to receive her husband before six that evening, bade the young man a hasty good-by, and drove home with Judy.

"I am so glad you are going to the play," said the little girl. "Why don't you often go—why don't you constantly go out in the evening?"

"If I did, Judy, what a dull time you'd have."

"You're quite mistaken, Hilda; I shouldn't be dull at all. You don't know how I like story-books, and Susan is such a nice girl. She has got brothers and sisters at home, and she tells me about them when you are out. I am never lonely; I couldn't possibly be sad in the same house with you. If I saw you once or twice a day it would be enough for me—it would really."

"My dear little pet," laughed Hilda, "how solemnly you are talking, what a frightfully earnest tone has got into your voice, and how you are puckering your poor little forehead. I have only one thing to say in reply to your generous wish to leave me so much by myself, namely, that I should find it extremely inconvenient and extremely lonely to have you in the house and only see you twice a day."

"But suppose I weren't with you at all, Hilda—suppose I were still at the Rectory."

"That would be different," said Hilda, in a light tone; "you would be in your natural home, and I——"

"But you would be lonely if I were away from you, Hilda; do say you'd be fearfully lonely!"

The passion in Judy's voice was unnoticed by Hilda.

"I'd miss you, of course, my pet," she said; "but I do declare that stupid driver is taking us wrong. Oh, if he goes up that way it will be such a round that I shall be late for Jasper's dinner. Poke your parasol through the little window in the roof, Judy, and stop him, do."

Judy obeyed, the driver received his directions in due course, and a moment or two later Hilda and Judy were standing in the little hall at Philippa Terrace. Quentyns came suddenly forward.

"Why, Jasper, you have come back already," said the wife. "It isn't five yet, but I—I can dress in no time. Have you got the tickets?—where are we going?"

"Come into the drawing room, Hilda, I want to say a word to you," said Quentyns.

"Run upstairs and take your things off, Judy," said Hilda. She followed her husband into the little drawing room and shut the door. "Well?" she said. Her voice was still gay, but a little, just a little, of the old fear was creeping back into her heart.

"I am ever so sorry, Hilda, to disappoint you," said Quentyns, "but when I went to town this morning I absolutely forgot an engagement I made a week ago. I have to go down with two or three men to Richmond. We are to dine at the Star and Garter, and afterward Philip Danvers has asked me to go home with him. The Danvers are charming people—have a beautiful house on the river, and everything in the best possible style. I should rather like to cultivate them. It is never a good plan to throw over friends who may be influential; still, if you really wish it, Hilda, I'll come home to-night and make some sort of excuse to Danvers—wire to him that I am ill, or something of the kind. Of course it is too late for me to get tickets for the play, but if you would like me to stay at home, I'll—I'll do it—so there!"

Hilda's face, which had been white, was now flushed.

"Why didn't you tell me this morning?" she said. "Why did you forget? I spent a day of hope, and now—now——" Her eyes filled with sudden tears, she bit her lips and turned away.

Her action, which seemed almost pettish, annoyed Quentyns.

"You needn't cry," he said. "I never supposed you could be so childish. Do you think I forgot on purpose? I was looking forward to my time at Richmond, but it slipped my memory that this was the day. You needn't cry, however, for if you have suddenly taken such a frantic desire for my society, it is at your service. I shall go out and wire to Danvers, and be back again in half an hour."

After all, Mrs. Quentyns had plenty of self-control. The annoyance and distress in her voice had altogether left it when she spoke again.

"Of course you must go, Jasper," she said. "You don't suppose for a quarter of an instant that I should stand in your way. Let me go up with you and help you to put the things you want into a bag, and you will want some tea before you start. I'll ring and tell Susan to prepare it. Now come along, dear; I'm glad of course that you are having this pleasure."

As Hilda ran upstairs her manner was once more quite cheerful. Quentyns, however, whose conscience was smiting him, although he didn't know it, could not help acting more or less like a bear with a sore head.

"I shouldn't have accepted the invitation," he said, "upon my word I shouldn't, did I not know that you would have Judy to keep you company. You know I haven't that passion for children you have, and——"

The door was closed behind the two.

"Don't say any more," said Hilda, in a frightened sort of voice. "I told you I was glad that you were to have the pleasure. Now which bag will you take? Will the small Gladstone be large enough?"

Ten minutes later Quentyns had left the house in a hansom, and Hilda went up to Judy's room.

"Come downstairs, darling," she said, "we are to have another long evening all to ourselves. What a good thing I've got my sweet little sister to stay at home with me. Judy, this was to be a festive night, and I had quite a festive dinner prepared. Suppose we keep the occasion, although we are only to be by ourselves. You shall dine with me to-night, Judy, and we'll both dress for dinner. You shall wear white, for you look so sweet in white, and I'll do the same."

"Have you got the old India muslin dress that you used to wear at the Rectory before—before there was a Jasper?" said Judy, in a queer, steady kind of little voice. "If you have that old India muslin that father loved and Aunt Marjorie loved, and that Babs and I used always to say you looked like an angel in, will you put it on to-night, Hilda?—will you wear that dress once again?"

"What a queer thing!" replied Hilda. "I never threw the old muslin away. I think I can poke it out of some depths somewhere; and it is so soft that, if I shake it out and hang it up for about half an hour, it will be quite presentable. Yon funny Judy, why do you wish to see me in that dress?"

"You were all mine when you wore that dress last," said Judy.

"I am always yours, my dearest. But don't let us talk sentiment; let us make ourselves smart, and let us come downstairs and be happy. We'll imagine that we are at a very gay party; heaps and heaps of other people in the room, but we two, as is sometimes the case, are more or less alone in the crowd. We are so completely one that other people scarcely affect us. We can talk together, and whisper old secrets about the garden, and Babs, and the animals, and the organ in the church, and the funny chorister-boy who would never sing in tune; we can talk of all these things, although there are throngs and throngs around us, for in a crowd those who love each other often find the best sort of solitude. Come down, Judy, come down, and let's be happy!"

"How flushed you are, Hilda; are you well?"

"Yes; I never felt better."

"You look awfully pretty; you look quite lovely."

"What a dear little flatterer you are! Does it really matter whether I look pretty or not? Aunt Marjorie would scold you, child, for praising my looks to my face; she would say you were encouraging vanity."

"And I should tell her to her face that I was not," answered Judy stoutly. "It's right to look beautiful; it's copying the flowers. Now run and put on your India muslin dress, Hilda."

Hilda left the room, and half an hour later the two sisters met in the little drawing room. There were fresh flowers in the vases; and a great bowl of primroses, which Aunt Marjorie had sent from the Rectory, was placed on the little table in the square bay-window.

Judy in her white dress stood near the flowers. She took up one, and in an absent sort of fashion pulled it to pieces. Susan announced dinner, and the sisters dined together in great state, and with apparent enjoyment. Hilda joked about everything, and Judy, catching up her spirit, did likewise.

"Let us imagine, just for to-night, that I am grown-up," she said; "treat me as if I were your grown sister—not your little sister—Hilda."

Hilda felt in the humor to comply with any request Judy made.

"We will have our coffee in the drawing room," she said. "Black coffee for me, please, Susan, but bring in a little jug of cream for Miss Judy's. Now, dearest," turning to the child, "don't forget that the play is going on; we have dined out with numbers, oh, numbers of guests, and now we are in the large assembly-room, alone in the crowd, happy because we are together."

Judy had thrown herself back into a deep arm-chair in the little drawing room while Hilda was speaking; her eyes had a sort of starry radiance about them, her cheeks were slightly flushed, her cloudy soft brown hair was thrown back from her white brow.

Hilda moved about the room; she was restless notwithstanding the enforced calm she was putting upon herself. Judy smiled when Hilda spoke, but in her heart certain words kept repeating themselves—they had repeated themselves like a sort of mournful echo in that poor little heart all day.

"All the moments you are away from me are long and wearisome," Hilda had said to her husband. "All the moments."

And then he had said to her:

"You don't find three trumpery. I wish I didn't!"

"So I'm the trumpery," thought Judy to herself. "I'm three. And all the moments while Hilda is away from Jasper are long and wearisome. Poor Hilda! poor darling! how well she hid it all from me; how good, how very good she has been to me; but I'm glad I know. It was a lucky, a very lucky thing that the door of the breakfast room was left slightly open this morning, and so I was able to hear Jasper's words."

"How silent you are, dearest," said Hilda, looking at the child.

"I beg your pardon," said Judy, jumping up. "I was thinking."

"Think aloud then, sweet. Let me share your pretty thoughts."

"But they are not pretty, Hilda; and I think I'd rather no one shared them. Now let us talk about old times—about the dear old times before there was a Jasper."

"Judy," said Hilda, "there is just one thing I should like to say to you. Even if it gives you pain, I ought to remind you, my darling, that Jasper is my husband; that I love him. Oh! Judy, Judy, my heart aches with love to him. My heart aches because I love my husband so much."

Judy clenched her hands; a great wave of crimson swept over her face. Hilda had hidden her own face in her hands, and did not notice the child's agitation. Presently the little sister's hand softly touched her forehead.

"And you're lonely to-night, poor Hilda, because your Jasper is away?"

"Yes, Judy, it's true. I'm afraid even to tell you how lonely I am."

"And you've been trying to seem cheerful, just to please me."

"And to please myself too," said Hilda, starting up and wiping the tears from her eyes. "There, we won't talk about it any more; we'll go on pretending that we are having an awfully jolly time."

"You're very brave, Hilda," said Judy; "and when people are brave, things generally come right. Now, may I sit on your knee, just as if I were a baby instead of a tall girl with long legs? I wouldn't make you unhappy, Hilda darling. When there's an inevitable I must face it; I must, and you will see that I will. Jack the Giant Killer shan't beat me over difficulties when I've made up my mind."

"Judy, your face is flushed, and your eyes are too bright; that strong coffee was bad for you, you won't sleep to-night."

"I dare say I shan't sleep; but now let us talk of old times."

"Only for a few moments, dear; you look so excited that I shall not rest until I see you safely in bed."

Judy laughed, and declared stoutly that she never felt better.

Half an hour afterward she went up to her pretty little bedroom, Hilda promising to follow her in about a quarter of an hour, if she possibly could.

When the elder sister entered the room, she found Judy standing by her bed in her frilled night-dress.

"You will get cold, love—do get into bed," said Hilda.

"I want to say my prayers to you, Hilda, if you don't mind," said Judy, "just as I used when I was a very little girl."

"Of course, darling, if you wish it."

Hilda sat down, and the little sister knelt at her knee.

The old baby prayers were said aloud; but suddenly, in the midst of them, Judy bent her head and murmured something which Hilda could not hear.

She jumped up a moment later and put her arms round her sister's neck.

"You won't be lonely long, Hilda," she said. "It will be all right; you'll see it will be as right as possible. I am glad you are fond of Jasper. I am really, really, awfully glad."

"Good-night, my darling," said Hilda, kissing her. She went out of the room with tears in her eyes.

"Poor little Judy, how little she knows," thought the elder sister; "how very little she knows what a cloud there is between Jasper and me. Oh, if it goes on much longer, I think my heart will break!"

In the meantime, in her pretty white bed, Judy was murmuring an old text to herself:

"He that taketh not up his cross and followeth after Me, cannot be My disciple."

Once, long ago, the Rector had explained this text, or rather given a shadow of its meaning to the child.

"Followeth after Me," she murmured; and a vision came to her of One who, in the great cause of Love, had taken up His cross, even to death.

She wiped the tears from her eyes, and fell asleep.



CHAPTER XVII.

JUDY'S SECRET.

Be strong to hope, oh, Heart! Though day is bright, The stars can only shine In the dark night. Be strong, oh, Heart of mine, Look towards the light!

—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

The next morning Judy was down specially early to breakfast.

Her cheeks were slightly more flushed than usual, and her eyes, to anyone who watched them closely, had a determined, almost hard, expression in them. Hilda, however, was too much occupied with her own sad thoughts to take any special notice of the child.

"You look well, Judy," she said, giving a quick glance at her. "Now come to breakfast, dear, I've a good deal to do afterward."

"Are you going out, Hilda?" asked Judy.

"No, I'm going to be busy all the morning over my accounts; they've got into the most disgraceful muddle, and I want to put them straight. I shall be in the drawing room, for I keep all my household books in the davenport there. I mean to give you a holiday, Judy, but perhaps you won't mind reading some of your history to yourself, and doing a few sums this morning."

"Of course not," said Judy brightly. "Shall I make you some toast, Hilda? This in the toast-rack is so soft and flabby—do let me, Hilda."

"If you like, dear, you may. It is lucky there is a fire, but I must tell cook to discontinue them, the weather is getting so warm."

Judy was an adept at making toast, and it was an old fashion at the Rectory that Hilda's toast should be made by her, on those blissful red-letter days when the elder sister had tea with the little ones in the nursery.

Judy wondered as she delicately browned that toast, and scorched her own little cheeks, if Hilda would remember the old days, and the toast which she used to make her; but Mrs. Quentyns seemed to be in a sort of brown study that morning, and thanked the child absently when the crisp hot toast was put on her plate.

"Jasper will be home quite early to-day, won't he, Hilda?" inquired Judy.

"I don't know, Judy—yes, I suppose so."

"I'm sure he'll be home early," repeated Judy with confidence; "perhaps he'll take you to the play to-night, and perhaps you'll be awfully happy."

"Oh, don't talk about it, Judy," said Hilda, in a weary voice; "we must all make up our minds to face the fact that there's a great deal more than mere happiness in the world. What is happiness? It's only a small part of life."

"I don't think it is going to be a small part of your life, Hilda; but now I'm not going to idle you any more, for you want to get to your accounts."

Judy ran out of the room. As she was going slowly upstairs, she paused once to say softly to herself:

"It's all happening beautifully; I ought to be glad. Of course I am glad. 'He that taketh not up his cross.' I'm glad that text keeps running in my head, it makes me so nice and strong."

Susan was doing out Judy's room when the little girl ran into it. Judy was fond of Susan, and Susan of her, and the girl stopped her work now to listen to the child's eager words.

"Susan, do you think Mrs. Quentyns would let you come out with me for a little this morning, for about an hour or an hour and a half?"

"Well, miss," said Susan, "it aint Monday, which is the day to get ready for the laundry, nor yet Wednesday, when I turns out the drawing room, nor Friday, which is silver day—there's nothing special for Thursday; I should think I could go with you, Miss Judy, and it will be a treat to take you about. Is it Mme. Tussand's you has a hankerin' for, Miss?"

"No, no, Susan, I'm not going to any exhibition; it's a secret—I'll tell you when we're out."

"The Dore Gallery, perhaps?" suggested Susan.

"No, it's nothing of that sort; I'll tell you when we're out."

"Very well, miss, I'm proud to be at your service whatever it is."

"I'll run down now and ask my sister if you may come with me, Susan."

Judy threw her arms round Hilda as she was coming up from the kitchen premises.

"Hilda, the day is so fine!"

"No, Judy, you mustn't tempt me to go out. I really have to get those accounts straight, they quite weigh on my mind."

"So you shall, Hilda darling; but I was wondering if after I've read my history and done my sums, and a little bit of writing I want to get through, if you'd let Susan—if you'd let Susan take me out."

"Susan!" repeated Hilda, "but I can go with you myself this afternoon."

"I know, only I do so want a run on this fine morning, and Susan says it's not laundry day, nor drawing-room day, nor silver day; it's Thursday, which is nothing special; she can come, may she, Hilda?—do say yes."

"It's not like you, Judy," said Hilda, "to be in this impatient state. I would rather you did not propose plans to the servants without first consulting me, darling, it rather puts them out of their place; but as you have done it, and as you are the best of dear little girls, I suppose I must say 'yes' on this occasion. If Susan hurries with her work, she may take you out: but of course you won't be very long, will you?"

To this question Judy made no reply. She gave Hilda a tight clasp and a fierce kiss, and rushed away.

"Susan, you're to hurry with your work, for you may come," she shouted, almost boisterously, to the parlor-maid, and then she ran down to the dining room and shut the door behind her.

"It's happening beautifully," she murmured again; "how lucky that I never spent godmother's sovereign. And now to write my letter to Hilda. I'm not going to waste my time crying, there'll be time enough for that by and by—that's if I want to cry, perhaps I shan't. When I think of how very happy Hilda will be, perhaps my heart will sing. But now for the letter—Hilda mustn't find it too soon; I'll put it under her pin-cushion, then perhaps she won't see it for some hours after I've gone, but now I must write it."

Judy took out her own little blotting-book, placed a sheet of paper before her, and began laboriously, with little fingers which rapidly got ink-stained, to put a few words on the paper.

"DARLING HILDA,

"You'll be s'prised when you get this. I'm going home. I'm quite well now, and I'm not going to fret, but I'm going to be really happy. Good-by, Hilda; I love you awfully.

"Your "JUDY."

This little note was put into an envelope, and sealed with some precious red wax, and before she left the house Judy found an opportunity to put it under Hilda's pin-cushion.

"It doesn't tell her a bit what I think, nor what I feel," murmured the poor child. "But it's best for her just to suppose that I want to go home. She'll be happy all the sooner if she thinks that."

Susan was rather elated at escaping housework, and at being allowed to go out so early in the morning. She was especially fond of Judy, and would do anything in the world for her. Now, therefore, principally on Judy's account, but also in the hope that the baker might happen to see her as she passed his shop, she put on her very smartest hat and her very best jacket, and patiently waited in the front hall for Judy's appearance.

Hilda came out of the drawing room to see the two as they went off.

"You had better take an omnibus, and get out at Kensington Gardens," she said to the maid. "I shall expect you back in time to get lunch ready, Susan. Judy pet, give me a kiss before you go."

Judy had lost her roses now, her face was pale, and there were dark shadows under her big eyes. Her little voice, however, had a very stout, determined tone about it.

"Good-by, Hilda," she said; "one kiss—two, three kisses, Hilda; it is good of you to let us out,—and we are going to be so jolly. Good-by, darling Hilda."

"Good-by, Judy," said Hilda.

She kissed the child, but in a pre-occupied manner—the cloud which weighed on her heart was oppressing her, and dulling her usually keen perceptions where Judy was concerned.

"It's all the better," thought the little girl, "it's easier to say good-by when she's not extra loving."

Hilda went back to her accounts, and Judy and Susan walked down the terrace, and turning the corner were lost to view.

They had gone on a little way, and Susan was about to hail a passing omnibus, when Judy suddenly put her hand on the servant's arm.

"Susan," she said, "I am going to tell you the secret now. You'll be sure to keep it?"

"Well, of course, miss, I'll do my best—I hope I aint one of the blabbing sort."

"I don't think you are, Susan—you look as if a person could trust you. I'm going to trust you with a most important thing."

"Very well, miss—I'll be proud I'm sure; but hadn't we better stop that 'bus—there's the conductor looking at us."

"Does that 'bus go in the direction of Waterloo Station?" asked Judy.

"Waterloo—bless you, Miss Judy—I don't know whether it do or not. I don't s'pose so for a quarter of a minute. Waterloo is miles from here—that I do know. But it's nothing to us where Waterloo is, miss, it's to Kensington Gardens we're going, and the 'bus has gone on now, so there's no good our worrying ourselves about it. Another will pass us in a minute. There are plenty half empty at this hour of the day."

"I wish you would stop talking, Susan, and let me explain what I mean," said Judy, almost fretfully. "It's to Waterloo I want to go, not to Kensington Gardens. Do you hear me—do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I suppose you're joking me, Miss Judy. My missis said we were to go to Kensington Gardens."

"Please, Susan, stop for a minute. I want to say something very important. I am going home. That's the secret. I am going home to Aunt Marjorie and to father, and my little sister Babs, and the way home is by Waterloo, so I must get there. Now do you understand? That's the secret—I am going home to-day."

Judy's face was so pale, and her words so intensely earnest, that Susan saw at last that the secret was no joking matter, but something real and hard to bear.

"Now I wonder what the little dear is up to," she said under her breath.

"You know, Miss Judy, pet," she replied aloud in as soothing a voice as she could command, "that you don't really mean to run away like that,—for it is running away to go back to your home, and never say a word to Mrs. Quentyns, and she so wrapped up in you, and your room furnished so prettily and all."

Judy had to gulp down a sob before she answered Susan.

"I didn't expect you to understand me," she said with a dignity which made a deep impression on the maid. "I'm not running away, and I'm doing right not wrong. You don't suppose it's always very pleasant to do right, but sometimes one can't think about what's pleasant. I wouldn't have asked you to help me at all, Susan, but I don't know how to get to Waterloo Station. Of course I came from there with my sister, but I didn't notice the road we took, nor anything about it. I know we were a long time in a cab, so I suppose the station is a good way from Philippa Terrace. What you have got to do now, Susan, is to obey me, and not to ask any questions. I really know what I'm about, and I promise that you shan't get into any trouble."

But to Judy's surprise Susan was firm.

"I won't have hand nor part in the matter," she said; "I was told to take you to Kensington Gardens, miss, and it's there we've got to go, or we'll turn round and go back to Philippa Terrace."

For a moment or two Judy felt afraid that all her plans were in jeopardy. She might of course call a cab on her own account, and trust the driver to take her safely to her destination; but brave as she was, she had scarcely courage for this extreme step; besides, the driver of the hansom might take it into his head to listen to Susan's strong objections, and even if he did obey Judy, Susan would go back to Philippa Terrace, and tell Hilda everything, and then Hilda would follow Judy to Waterloo, and prevent her going home at all.

The strongest feeling in the child's mind was a desire to be safe back in the Rectory before Hilda knew anything about her determination.

"Then she can't do anything," thought Judy. "She'll have nothing for it but to make herself quite happy with Jasper again."

Suddenly an idea came to her.

"I won't argue with you any more, Susan," she said. "I suppose you think you are doing right, and if you do, of course I can't expect you to act in any other way. If you knew everything that is in my heart, I am quite sure you would help me; but as you don't, I must think of something else. You know Mr. Rivers, don't you—the gentleman who dined at Philippa Terrace two nights ago?"

"Yes, miss, of course."

"My sister and I took lunch with him yesterday," continued Judy. "He is a very nice gentleman; he's a great friend of Mr. Quentyns."

"Oh, yes, miss, I'm aware," replied the maid.

"He lives in chambers," continued Judy. "I don't in the least know what chambers means; but he asked me to go and see him some day and have lunch with him. He wrote his address on a piece of paper and gave it to me, and I have it in my purse. My sister said I might certainly lunch with Mr. Rivers. Now, Susan, I intend to go to him to-day. So please call a hansom, and I shall drive there at once. You can come or not as you please. If you prefer it you can go home; but of course I'd rather you came with me."

Susan deliberated. Certainly Miss Judy was in a very queer condition, and it would be as much as her place was worth to take her to Waterloo; but to drive with her to the chambers of that nice gentleman who was, she knew, one of her master's greatest friends, seemed a shifting of responsibility which was quite a way out of the dilemma, for not for worlds would Susan do anything really to hurt the child's feelings.

"All right, miss," she said after a pause; "even that seems queer enough, but Mr. Rivers can explain matters himself to my missis. Here's a nice 'ansom with a steady horse. Stop, driver, please, stop! Draw up here by the lamp-post. Now, miss, shall I get in first and give you a hand?"

"No, Susan; I can get into a hansom without anyone helping me."

"Drive to No. 10 Johnson's Court, Lincoln's Inn Fields," said Judy, in a clear voice to the man; and then she and Susan found themselves bowling away farther and farther from West Kensington, from Judy's pretty bedroom, from Hilda and her love.

In an incredibly short space of time they arrived at their destination; the driver pulled up his horse at No. 10 Johnson's Court, with an esprit which Judy would have much admired had her thoughts been less pre-occupied.

She jumped out with alacrity, declining Susan's assistance, and asked the man what his fare was. He named a sum which Susan took into her head to consider exorbitant, and which she loudly objected to Judy's paying; but the little girl gave it without a moment's hesitation, and the next instant was running up the stairs to Rivers' chambers.

What might have happened had that gentleman been out no one can say; Judy's heroic impulse might after all have come to nothing, and Jasper might still have had to complain of that three, which means trumpery, invading his house; but it so happened that Rivers was in, and, busy man that he was, comparatively disengaged. When Judy inquired for him he was standing in his clerk's room, giving some directions. At the sound of her voice he looked up, and with a start and smile of delight came forward to welcome her.

"I am very glad to see you," he said; "how kind of you to remember your promise."

Then, seeing by her face that Judy's poor little heart was very full, he took her into his private room, and desired Susan to wait in the clerk's room.

"Now, Jack the Giant Killer, what is it?" said Rivers; "what's the matter?"

"I told you," said Judy; "I told you yesterday, that perhaps I was going to stop being a mutineer. Well, I have stopped. I thought you'd like to know."

"So I do, Judy," said Rivers. "I am proud to be acquainted with a little girl who has such immense control over herself. I should like to hear how you have contrived to get out of the state of rebellion into the state of submission. I know of course that you have been killing a giant, but I am interested in the process."

"I'm killing the giant by going home," said Judy, standing very erect by Rivers' table, and pushing back her shady hat from her white forehead. "I am going home, back to Little Staunton Rectory. I see what you mean, that it's better—better for Jasper and Hilda, to be without—without me. I pretended not to understand you the other night, but I don't pretend any longer now; and yesterday evening, when Hilda and I were all alone, for Jasper had gone away down to Richmond, I—I made up my mind. Hilda doesn't know anything about it."

"Sit down, Judy," said Rivers. "I cannot tell you how I respect you."



"I'd rather stand, please," said Judy. "Hilda doesn't know," she continued, "and she mustn't know until I am safe back at Little Staunton Rectory. Susan—you know Susan, she's Hilda's parlor-maid; well, Susan came out with me this morning, and I coaxed her very hard to take me to Waterloo, but she refused. I don't quite know how to get there by myself, so now I want to know if you will take me?"

"Certainly I will," said Rivers. "What is more, I'll go with you to the Rectory. I have nothing special to do to-day, and it will be quite a pleasure to spend a little time in your company. Do you know anything about the trains, and what is the name of the station we have to go to?"

Judy named the one nearest to the Rectory.

"You had better sit down for a moment," pursued Rivers. "I have an 'A B C' here, so I can tell you in a moment which is the best train to take. Now, what is the matter?"

"Only, Mr. Rivers, Hilda must not know anything—anything about it until I am safe home. Can this be managed?"

"I have very little doubt that it can. I shall go out now and speak to Susan and send her away. Thank you, Judy, for coming to me; I would do anything for you, because you are brave, and I respect and admire all brave people."



CHAPTER XVIII.

GIANT-KILLER.

And the Prince, seeing that it was of no use to remonstrate, bowed and retired.

—THE GOLDEN BRANCH.

Susan came home and told her mistress that Judy was spending the day with Mr. Rivers.

"What an extraordinary thing for the child to do!" said Hilda.

"She said, ma'am, that Mr. Rivers asked her to lunch, and that you knew about it."

"Yes; but why did she not say something to me when she was going out? It is so unlike Miss Judy to keep a thing of that sort to herself."

Susan made no reply. She was no longer responsible, and was only too anxious not to betray the child.

"Mr. Rivers says he'll take the best care of her, ma'am," she said, after a pause.

"Well, go and take off your hat, Susan, and lay the lunch," said Hilda, feeling still more puzzled, but not caring to pursue her inquiries any further.

She had a sense of aggrievement and a feeling of added loneliness as she sat down to her solitary lunch. She missed Judy, and wondered at her sudden want of confidence; but soon the deeper trouble which Jasper's conduct had caused returned to trouble her, and she forgot her little sister in the sadness of her thoughts.

She spent a long and very lonely afternoon indoors, for she had not the heart to go out, and besides, she expected Judy home every minute.

She thought it likely that Rivers would take her somewhere after lunch, but surely he would bring her back to Philippa Terrace in time for tea. Hilda ordered some cakes which she knew were special favorites of Judy's to be ready for this meal; and then she sat in her pretty little drawing room, and tried to divert her thoughts over the pages of the latest novel which had arrived from Mudie's.

It was either not specially interesting, or Hilda found it difficult to concentrate her attention. She flung the book on her knee, and sat absorbed in what Judy and Babs called a brown study. She was startled out of her meditations by Susan bringing in the tea-tray and the little kettle and spirit-lamp.

"Did Mr. Rivers say when he would bring Miss Judy home?" she asked of the maid.

Susan colored and hesitated slightly in her reply.

"No, ma'am; he said nothing at all about coming home," she answered.

Hilda noticed her hesitation, but did not wish to question her further. After the servant left the room, however, she began for the first time to feel both impatient and uneasy with regard to her little sister.

"If Judy is not here by six o'clock," she said to herself, "I will go to Lincoln's Inn Fields in search of her. How extraordinarily impatient she was to go out this morning; and how very odd of her to insist on going to Mr. Rivers', and to say nothing at all to me about it; and then how queer—how more than queer—her not having yet returned. My sweet little Judy, the most thoughtful child who ever breathed—it is unlike her to cause me anxiety of this sort."

Hilda did not care for the social little meal which was generally so lively when Judy was present. Immediately afterward she ran upstairs to put on her bonnet and jacket; and as she was going out, left a message with Susan.

"If Miss Judy and Mr. Rivers come," she said, "please say that I have gone to Lincoln's Inn Fields, as I felt anxious about the child being so long away."

"Yes, ma'am," said the servant.

"Whistle for a hansom for me, please, Susan."

Susan did so; and half an hour afterward Hilda was making inquiries at Rivers' chambers with regard to his whereabouts. The clerks there could give her no definite information. Mr. Rivers had gone out with a little lady soon after twelve o'clock, and had told them not to expect him back that day.

"I shall find Judy at Philippa Terrace when I go home," thought Mrs. Quentyns. "It was thoughtless of her not to tell me how long she would be out—it was wonderfully unlike her. Still, of course, she will be at home now."

But when Hilda returned no Judy was there to greet her; but her husband's face was seen looking somewhat impatiently out at the drawing-room window. He came at once to help his wife out of the cab, and entered the house with her.

"Where were you?" he asked. "It is nearly time for dinner."

"I won't be a moment getting dressed, Jasper; but—but—I am anxious about Judy."

Quentyns had meant to be specially nice and kind to Hilda after his evening's pleasure, but he felt it impossible now to keep the glib, sarcastic words back.

"I might have known when I saw that fretful look on your face, that Judy was the cause. Now, what is her latest transgression?"

"Oh, there is a telegraph-boy," said Hilda eagerly. "What—what—oh, is there anything wrong?"

She rushed to the hall-door herself, before Jasper could prevent her. Susan, coming into the hall to answer the imperative double knock, was sent back to the kitchen regions, in a cross voice, by her master.

"Really, Hilda," began Quentyns, "your impetuosity is most undignified. I must say that these kinds of scenes are——Now, what is the matter, my love—tears again. A coming home of this sort is not the most cheerful sort of thing, you must allow."

"Oh, Jasper, Jasper, I'm not even listening to you," said poor Hilda. "What can be the matter? what can be wrong? Here's a telegram from Mr. Rivers. He says—see what he says.

"'Little Staunton Rectory. Have brought Judy home. Will call and see you soon after ten this evening. Rivers.'"

"Rivers!" repeated Jasper.

His voice grew thoughtful; he did not like Rivers, of all men, to be mixed up in his domestic affairs. Rivers, at least, must keep him on a pedestal, and know nothing of his weaknesses—of that infirmity of temper which he struggled against, and yet, in Judy's presence, could not conquer. He forgot all about Judy herself in his wonder as to how Rivers had got mixed up in the matter.

Hilda had seated herself on the sofa, and still holding the open telegram in her hand, was trying furtively to wipe away her fast-falling tears.

"I wish you'd stop crying, Hilda," said her husband. "There's nothing to alarm you in this telegram—nothing whatever. If Judy is with a man like Tom Rivers, she's as safe as child can be."

"But she has gone home, Jasper; she has gone home to the Rectory, without even telling me."

"Well, my dear, it's impossible for me to explain away the vagaries of that most eccentric child. I presume, however, that Rivers has a key to the mystery, and as he says he will call here after ten o'clock, we shall know all about it then. No amount of discussion can explain it in advance. So, Hilda, perhaps you will go upstairs and get ready for dinner. I'm frightfully hungry."

Hilda rose wearily and left the room at once.

"I think I can guess something—just something of what it means," she said to herself. "My little Judy—my brave little Judy!"

Judy's letter was lying hidden all this time under the large pin-cushion on Hilda's dressing table, but as it was not seen, its contents, which would have explained a good deal, were of course not known.

The dinner which followed this unhappy beginning of the evening was as dismal and constrained as if poor "trumpery" were still present.

Quentyns, like most men who work hard all day, was particular about this meal, and to-night of all nights cook had not sent up the soup to his satisfaction, nor the entree seasoned to his taste. It was all one to Hilda just now what she ate, but Quentyns pushed his plate impatiently away, and kept on referring to the excellent dinner he had had the night before at the Star and Garter. He spoke of his evening as delightful, and of the house of the new friend where he had slept as altogether irreproachable.

Hilda felt that he was talking at her all the time, but she had not the heart to reply to him. The dismal little meal came to a mournful end, and the two went into the drawing room to wait for Rivers' arrival.

Hilda took up a handkerchief she was embroidering for Judy, and took special pleasure in putting in new and exquisite stitches as her thoughts centered themselves in dull wonder and pain round the child. Quentyns became absorbed in the contents of a novel. He read for half an hour—he was by no means in a good humor, and now and then his eyes were raised to look over the top of the book at his wife. There was a patient sort of suffering about her which irritated him a good bit, as he could see no possible reason to account for it. He asked her one or two questions, which she answered in an abstracted manner.

No, he certainly had not bargained for this sort of thing when he married. Hilda was not only pretty, but she could be, when she liked, sufficiently intellectual to satisfy his requirements. He was fastidious and had peculiar views with regard to women. He hated the so-called clever women, but at the same time he despised the stupid ones. To please him a woman must have tact—she must quickly understand his many moods. She must sympathize when he demanded sympathy, and when he showed by his manner that he wished to be left alone, she must respect his desires. Hitherto, Hilda had abundantly fulfilled his expectations. If Judy had not been in the house, all that he had ever dreamed of in his married life would have come to pass. But to-night, although Judy was not there to intermeddle, Quentyns felt that, for all the good his wife was doing him, he might as well be a bachelor at his club.

"My dear," he said with some impatience, and forgetting himself not a little, "do you know that you have made precisely the same remark now five times? I did not quarrel with its brilliancy the first time I heard it, but on the fifth occasion I will own that it gave me a certain sense of ennui. As I see that your thoughts are miles away, I'll just run round to the club for a bit and find out if there is anything going on."

Hilda raised her eyes in some surprise. A certain expression in them seemed to expostulate with Jasper, but her lips said nothing; and just at that moment a hansom was heard to bowl up rapidly and stop with a quick jerk at the door. A moment later Rivers entered the drawing room. He came up at once to Hilda with the air of a man who has a message to deliver.

"Judy hopes you got her note long ere this, Mrs. Quentyns."

"Her note—no; I have not received any," replied Hilda.

"She wrote to you this morning, and put the note under the pin-cushion in your room."

"How romantic and Judy-like!" said Quentyns suddenly. "Quite the correct thing, according to the old-fashioned novels. When the heroine elopes she always leaves a note under the pin-cushion."

"How do you do, Jasper? I did not notice you until this moment," said Rivers. He gave the other man a sharp glance, which suddenly made him feel queer and small. "The only thing old-fashioned that I notice about Judy," he said, "is her noble unselfishness. She has gone home because—because—I think you can both guess why; an explanation would only be disagreeable. She begged me to tell you, Mrs. Quentyns, that she meant to be really perfectly happy at home, and she hoped you and Jasper would follow her example here. Poor little Giant Killer! she slew an enormous giant to-day, and there are few people I respect as I do that dear little soul. I saw her safely to the Rectory, as, when she came to me, I thought it best to humor what was more a noble inspiration than a child's whim. I will say good-night now."

Hilda scarcely said a word while Rivers was speaking. When he left the room, however, she stood still for an instant, listening intently. Jasper had gone out to see his friend into his hansom. Would he come back? He did for a moment.

"Don't sit up for me, Hilda," he said; and there was a tone in his voice which caused her heart to sink down low, very low indeed.

She heard the door slam behind him, and then she knew that she was alone. The servants had gone to bed—to all intents and purposes she was absolutely alone in the silent house.

So Judy's sacrifice was in vain. Judy had thought, by absolutely sacrificing herself, that she could bring this husband and wife together. It was not to be.

Hilda fell on her knees and buried her burning face in the sofa cushions.

"Oh, Judy, little Judy!" she sobbed. "Oh, Judy, what shall I do? My pain is greater than I can bear."

She knelt in this position for a long time. Her little sister's face was distinctly seen in her mental vision; Judy seemed surrounded by a sort of halo—but what of Jasper? Had all the love which united these two hearts vanished like a dream? Was he never coming back to her? Would he always misunderstand her? Oh, if she thought that, she would not stay with him—she would go back to the Rectory and to Judy, and forget her golden dream and turn back again to the old life. For three months she would have been a wife. She would forget that time. She would own to Jasper that she had made a mistake. She would be Hilda Merton once more. Alas! alas! that could not be. Vows and ceremonies tied her. She had stood beside the altar and given herself away. There was no going back on that step. Jasper was not the Jasper of her dreams. He must have a small mind not to understand Judy, and she had married him because she thought his mind so big and his heart so great. After all, Judy was far greater than Jasper.

"My little Judy," she murmured again, and then she sank down a pitiable, weak, inconsolable figure on the hearth-rug close to the expiring fire. She thought over the scenes of the last night and longed to have them back again.

"If Judy's arms were round me, I should not feel so lonely," she murmured. "Oh, Jasper, how can you turn from me? How can you fail to understand that my heart at least is big enough to love both Judy and you?"

The lamp burnt dimly and the fire went completely out. Hilda presently fell asleep in the darkness, and now a moonbeam shining into the drawing room and falling across her tired face made it look white and unearthly, almost like the face of a dead girl. It was in this attitude that Quentyns found her when he came back somewhere between one and two o'clock.

His conscience was reproaching him, for Rivers, an old friend, had not failed to give him a little spice of his mind; but he was just in that irritable condition where repentance is almost impossible, and when self-abasement only leads a man into further wrong-doing.

When he saw Hilda's tired face, he said to himself with a sort of laugh:

"If I don't encourage this sort of thing, I shall doubtless be more and more of a tyrant in the eyes of my good wife and that precious fastidious child and Rivers. Well, well, I cannot see the beauty of voluntary martyrdom. If Hilda weren't quite such a goose, she would have gone to bed two hours ago, instead of falling asleep here to the utter disregard of her health and personal appearance."

So Quentyns, looking cross and uninterested, shook his wife not too gently; spoke in a commonplace tone, out of which he purposely excluded every scrap of emotion, and asked her how much longer she wanted to sit up.

Hilda stumbled to her feet without a word. She went upstairs and to bed, but although her husband quickly slept, she lay awake until the morning.

She came down to breakfast, looking tired and fagged. There were black lines under her eyes, and when Quentyns asked her what was the matter, she not only owned to a headache, but burst into tears.

When a man is thoroughly cross, nothing irritates him more than tears on the part of his wife, and Quentyns now so far forgot himself as to rise hastily from the breakfast table and leave the room, slamming the door behind him. He put in his head a moment later to nod to his wife and say good-by.

"If I'm late, don't wait dinner for me," he said, and then he left the house. Hilda had plenty of time to wipe her tears away in the deserted breakfast room. The pain at her heart was almost greater than she could bear. Her gentle nature was stirred by what she considered gross injustice on the part of her husband.

"He does not care for me any more," she muttered. "I thought him great and brave and good. I know he is clever; I suppose he is great, and perhaps even good; but I am too small and too little for him—I fail to understand him, and he does not love me any more. Oh, if only little Judy had stayed with me I should not feel as broken-hearted as I do at present. if only little Judy had stayed with me, I should loneliness of my life?"

At this moment Hilda's dismal meditations were interrupted by the sound of carriage wheels, which not only came rattling down the little street, but stopped at the hall door. She started up in a fright, pushed back her disordered hair from her flushed face, and the next moment found herself in the voluminous embrace of Jasper's aunt, Lady Malvern.

"My dear," exclaimed that good lady, "I must apologize for not looking you up sooner, but I have been particularly busy; for Cynthia, my eldest girl, has just got engaged and we are to have a wedding in the autumn and all kinds of fuss; but I have not forgotten you, Hilda, and I have just come to carry you off for the day. It is a lovely day, and we are all going to drive to Richmond to picnic in the park. Run upstairs, my love, and put on your hat and gloves. I mean to carry you off immediately."

"But Jasper has just gone to town—he will be so sorry to have missed you," said Hilda.

"Well, I suppose I can endure life even though I have missed Jasper," said Lady Malvern with a laugh. "In any case I want you, and so does Cynthia. Cynthia has taken a great fancy to you, Hilda; so run away and get ready. I will send a wire to your husband to come down and join us later on. There now, will that content you, you poor, devoted little soul?"

Hilda smiled and a faint color came into her cheeks.

"Run up to your room, my dear," said good-natured Lady Malvern. "Be as quick as ever you can getting into the prettiest costume you have, for we are to be quite a gay party, I can tell you. Now run off, dear, run off, and pray don't keep me waiting a moment longer than you can help."

Lady Malvern was the sort of person who never could bear anyone to say "no" to her, and Hilda at first unwillingly, but presently with a sort of elation and even defiance which was altogether foreign to her gentle nature, prepared to make herself smart for her unexpected gayety. She went upstairs, pulled out one of her prettiest trousseau dresses, and, with hands that trembled, began to array herself in it.

Meanwhile Lady Malvern sat perfectly still in the tiny little dining room, with a somewhat troubled look on her good-tempered face.

"Now, what has Jasper been doing?" she said to herself. "That sweet child doesn't look happy. Marks of tears round her eyes, flushed cheeks—very low spirits. Dear, dear! this will never do. Not more than three months from the wedding-day."

Lady Malvern had seen very little of her nephew since his marriage. She knew nothing, therefore, about Judy; but she was just that fussy, good-natured, hearty sort of body who could not bear anyone with whom she came in contact to be miserable.

"I must set this right somehow or other," she said to herself. "Jasper doesn't understand Hilda, and Hilda is wretched, and thinks, poor dear little goose, that the sun will never shine again, and that life is practically over for her. She does not know, how could she, poor darling, how many rubs married people have to live through, and how jolly and comfortable they are notwithstanding them. Well, well, I am glad I called. I must set things right between this pair, whatever happens."

Lady Malvern little guessed, however, that she personally was to have very little to do with smoothing the rumpled rose-leaves in Hilda's and Jasper's lives.

When Mrs. Quentyns returned to the little dining room the flush on her cheeks and the softened look in her sweet eyes but added to her beauty, and when she found herself bowling away through the pleasant spring air in her kind friend's company, in spite of herself, her spirits could not help rising.

Lady Malvern had a house in Hans Place, and there Cynthia and two younger girls were waiting for them.

The day was a perfect one, very warm and summery for the time of year, and the young people all agreed that it was by no means too early in the season to enjoy themselves even in this al fresco fashion.

They were to end with tea at the "Star and Garter," and they all started off now for this day's pleasure in the highest spirits.

Hilda was quite young enough to enjoy such a proceeding immensely. As space divided her from her little home in Philippa Terrace her spirits rose, and now, if Judy had only been by her side, she would have felt perfectly happy.

By the time they reached Richmond Park all trace of tears and sorrow had left her charming face, and she was one of the brightest and gayest of the company.

No one could make herself more useful than Hilda, and when her husband appeared on the scene, he was a good deal astonished to see her flying lightly about, ordering and directing the arrangements of the picnic dinner. Her gay laughter floated to his ears on the summer breeze, her cheeks were bright, her eyes shining. In short, she looked like that charming Hilda who had won his heart in the old Rectory garden not a year ago.

Hilda was busily helping to concoct a salmon mayonnaise, when, raising her eyes, she met her husband's gaze. He smiled back at her a look of approval and love, and her heart rose considerably.

There were other people present besides Jasper who thought Mrs. Quentyns a very beautiful young woman. There were others waiting to show her the most polite and gracious attentions, and these facts considerably enhanced her value in her husband's eyes. In short, he began to fall in love with his wife over again, and Judy for the time being was forgotten by this pair.

The day passed all too quickly, and at last the moment arrived when the little party must turn their steps homeward.

"You must both come home and have supper with us," said Lady Malvern to her nephew and his wife. "Oh, yes, I shall take no denial; and now, Jasper, will you drive Cynthia and her sister back to town? I mean Hilda to accompany me."