She was silent for a moment. "It was lovely of you," she said, at last, with a little flush and with a sweetness that she rarely revealed. "It was lovely of you—and I was so hateful just now."
She reached out her hand to him, and his grasp was hearty, reassuring.
"It wouldn't seem natural if you and I didn't fuss a little, would it,
Judy?" and then the train pulled in.
"All aboard!" shouted the conductor.
Anne and Judy went through the Pullman, and came out on the observation platform.
"Tell little grandmother to take good care of Belinda and Becky," called Anne, whose heart yearned for her pets.
"And all of you come and see me," cried Judy, hoping that she might win some of the love that was extended to Anne.
"We will," they cried, "we will."
"We will," echoed Launcelot, with his eyes on the violets pinned on
Judy's gray coat, "we will if we have to sit up nights to do it."
A flutter of handkerchiefs, a blur of gray coat and red one, a trail of blue smoke, and the train was gone, and life to those left in Fairfax seemed suddenly a monotonous blank. As Launcelot turned away from the station, he ran into Dr. Grennell, who was rushing breathlessly up the steps.
"Has the train gone?" panted the minister.