The judge raised himself on his elbow, put on his gold eye-glass, and looked along the plain. "There, straight as the crow flies, little one," he said, pointing west. "It is about thirty miles in a direct line from where we sit; by rail about fifty, I think."
"It is a long way," she said, and a little sigh followed, as if she wished it nearer.
"You lived in Newhaven, I think, didn't you?" asked the judge.
"Yes, sir, till mamma died. It is not a nice place, but I love it dearly."
Ay, for a quiet grave there held the loved father and mother who had once made for her a happy home.
The judge did not speak, he did not know what to say just then, and Lucy did not seem to expect an answer. He shut his eyes again, and there was a long silence. Thinking he slept, Lucy rose, and, gently laying a rug over him, slipped away. He opened his eyes directly and watched her. She only moved a few yards from him, and knelt down with her face to the west. He heard a few faltering words, followed by a sob—"O dear papa and mamma, I wonder if you can see Tom and me to-day, and know how happy we are. God bless the dear friends who have made us so, for Christ's sake. Amen."
The judge's lips twitched beneath his mustache, and when Lucy rose again, he drew the rug up over his face, not wishing her to see that he had heard that little prayer. But he never forgot it. Two hours did not take long to slip away, and then the judge sat up and looked at Lucy with a comical smile.
"It is ten minutes to four, little one, and there isn't a sign of the wanderers. Suppose you and I make tea: do you think we could manage it between us?"
"Oh yes, sir; I know how to build a fire, and make tea too, and there are sticks in the waggon. May I try?"
"Of course, and I'll help to the best of my limited ability."