“Which do you love the best?” he said, sharply, “me and my grandson or the pigeons?”

“The pigeons, sir,” she said, simply. “But before my mamma died she said, ‘Bethany, when you grow up you will love human beings better than the animals and the birds.’”

“Then why did you not stay at home with the birds this morning instead of coming with me? You wanted to come, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t know what made me want to come, but when I heard you putting on your coat I left the lovely bird and ran in the hall. It seemed as if I would be lonely without you.”

The Judge smiled, a somewhat puzzled smile, and did not speak until Roblee drew up in front of a large, old-fashioned, smartly painted house on River Street, and said, “Mrs. Everest’s, sir.”

The Judge started, then he turned to Bethany. “Do you want to come in with me?”

“I—I don’t just feel like it, sir,” she said, hesitatingly, and the Judge saw that her cast-down face was again wet with tears.

“I will not be long,” he said, kindly, and he rang the bell.

“Yes, Mrs. Everest was at home,” a trim little maidservant informed him, and she ushered him into a large room on the ground floor.

The painted floor of the room had only one rug, on which a fat baby was sprawling. A wire screen before a blazing fire kept in sparks and prevented the possibility of baby’s hands being burnt, or, possibly, baby’s precious body, for he was alone for the moment.