CHAPTER II.
THE PEOPLE WHO GET MARRIED.
Thou wert mine—all mine!...
—Where has summer fled?
Sun forgets to shine,
Clouds are overhead;
Blows a chilling blast,
Tells my frightened heart
That the hour at last
Comes when we must part.
Hurrying moments, stay,
Leave us yet alone!—
All the world grows gray,
Love, when thou art flown.
Judy's soul swelled within her when she heard the music still sending volumes of sound out of the little church. Miss Mills had not spoken all the way home. Babs had chattered without a moment's intermission. Her conversation had been entirely about birds and beasts and creeping things. Judy had replied with rather less interest than usual. She was so anxious to hurry home, so fearful of being too late. Now it was all right. Hilda was still in the church, and, delightful—more than delightful—the discordant notes of the choir had ceased, and only the delicious sounds of the organ were borne on the breeze.
"Hilda is in the church," said Judy, pulling her governess by her sleeve. "Good-by, Miss Mills; good-by, Babs."
She rushed away, scarcely heeding her governess's voice as it called after her to be sure to be back at the Rectory in time for tea.
The church doors were still open, but the young man in the cricketing-flannels, who had stood in the porch when Judy had started on her walk, was no longer to be seen. The little girl stole into the quiet church on tip-toe, crept up to her sister Hilda's side, and lying down on the floor, laid her head on her sister's white dress.
Judy's lips kissed the hem of the dress two or three times; then she lay quiet, a sweet expression round her lips, a tranquil, satisfied light in her eyes. Here she was at rest, her eager, craving heart was full and satisfied.
"You dear little monkey!" said Hilda, pausing for a moment in her really magnificent rendering of one of Bach's most passionate fugues. She touched the child's head lightly with her hand as she spoke.
"Oh, don't stop, Hilda; go on. I am so happy," whispered Judy back.