A Young Mutineer

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 bête 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 tête-à-tête, 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 bête 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.

"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.

"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 Doré 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.

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."