A month later Mrs. Quentyns was sitting in one of the largest hotels at Rome waiting for her husband to come in. The day was so balmy and genial that it was almost impossible for Hilda to believe that the time of year was early February. Dressed in dark-green velvet, with a creamy feather boa lying by her side, Hilda sat amidst all her unaccustomed surroundings, her eyes looking straight down the lofty room and her thoughts far away. The bride was thinking of her English home—she was an intensely happy bride—she loved her husband devotedly—she looked forward to a good and blessed life by his side, but still (and to her credit be it spoken) she could not forget old times. In the Rectory gardens now the crocuses and snowdrops were putting out their first dark-green leaves, and showing their tender petals to the faint winter sunshine. Judy and Babs, wrapped in furs from top to toe, were taking their afternoon walk—Babs was looking in vain for insect life in the hedges, and Judy was opening her big eyes wide to see the first green bud that ventured to put out its little tip to be greeted by the winter cold. Aunt Marjorie was learning to make use of her legs, and was glowing with warmth of body and vexation of spirit. The Rector was tranquilly writing a sermon which, notwithstanding its polished diction, should yet show the workings of a new spirit which would move his congregation on Sunday.
Hilda seemed to see the whole picture—but her mind's eye rested longest on the figure of the tall, rather overgrown child, whose eyes always wore too hungry an expression for perfect happiness.
"Little darling," murmured Hilda, "how I wish I had her with me here—she'd appreciate things so wonderfully. It is the greatest treat in the world to take Judy to see a really good picture—how her eyes shine in her dear face when she looks at it. My sweet little Judy, Jasper does not care for me to talk much to you, but I love you with all my heart and soul; it is the one drawback to my perfect happiness that I must be parted from you."
Hilda rose as she spoke, and going over to a table on which her traveling-bag stood, opened it, pressed the spring on a certain lock, and taking out a little crumpled, stained letter, read the words written on it.
"My darling Hilda [wrote the poor little scribe], this is to say that I love you better than anyone else in the world. I'll always go on loving you best of all. Please take a thousand million kisses, and never forget Judy.
"P. S.—I'll pray for you every day and every night. I hope you will be very happy. I won't fret if you don't. This letter is packed with love.
"Judy."
A step was heard along the passage; Hilda folded up the letter, slipped it back into its hiding place, and ran down the long room to meet her husband.
"Well, my darling," he exclaimed; "the English mail has just come in, and here's a budget for you."