Judy was silent. The faint, passing interest she had experienced died out of her face, and the rather sulky, unsatisfied expression returned to it.
Miss Mills, whose heart was very full of something, spoke again, more to herself than to the children.
"If there is one bigger mistake than another," she said, "it is the mistake of being fond of any one. Oh, how silly girls are when they get engaged to be married!"
"What's that?" asked Babs.
"I know," said Judy, who was again all curiosity and interest. "I'll tell you another time about it, Babs. Miss Hicks in the village was engaged, and she had a wedding in the summer. I'll tell you all about it, Babs, if you ask me when we are going to bed to-night. Please, Miss Mills, why is it dreadful to be engaged to be married?"
"Your troubles begin then," said Miss Mills. "Oh, don't talk to me about it, children. May you never understand what I am suffering! Oh, the fickleness of some people! The promises that are made only to be broken! You trust a person, and you are ever so happy; and then you find that you have made a great, big mistake, and you are miserable."
"Is that you, Miss Mills? Are you the miserable person?" asked Judy.
"No, no, child! I didn't say it was me. I wasn't talking of anyone in particular, and I shouldn't even have said what I did. Forget it, Judy—forget it, Babs. Come, let us collect the ferns."
"Suppose we find some white heather," said Babs eagerly.
"And much that's worth, too," replied Miss Mills. "I found a piece last summer. I gave——" She sighed, and the corners of her mouth drooped. She looked as if she were going to cry.