"It's such a funny wedding present," said Babs. "Do you think Hilda will like it?"
"She'll do more than like it: she'll love it. Don't talk to me any more—I'm too busy to answer you."
Babs fidgeted and mumbled to herself. Judy stood with her back to her. She used her little fingers deftly—her taste as to arrangement and color was perfect. The sharp thorns pricked her poor little fingers, but she was rather glad than otherwise to suffer in Hilda's cause. The wedding present was complete, no sign of the note could be seen in the midst of the green leaves and crimson berries. Judy unlocked the door and tumbled back into bed. Miss Mills knew nothing of her escapade, for Babs was far too stanch to betray her.
Just as Hilda in a cloud of white was stepping into the carriage to go to church that morning, a little figure, also in cloudy white with wide-open greeny-gray eyes, under which heavy dark marks were already visible, rushed up to her and thrust something into her hand.
"Your—your wedding present, Hilda," gasped Judy. The strong colors of the red and green made almost a blot upon Hilda's fairness. Her father, who was accompanying her to church, interposed.
"Stand back, my dear, stand back, Judy," he said. "Hilda, you had better leave those berries in the hall; you're surely not going to take them to church."
"Your promise, Hilda, your faithful promise," said Judy in an imploring voice.
Hilda looked at the child; she remembered her words of the night before, and holding the prickly little bunch firmly, said in a gentle voice:
"I particularly want to take Judy's present to church with me, father."
"As you like, my love, of course; but it is not at all in keeping with that lovely bouquet of hot-house white flowers sent to you by Lady Dellacœur."