"Oh, Judy," she said, still seeing the visions conjured up by her book.
"Oh, Judy, you ought to read this—"
"You know I don't like to read, Anne." Judy's tone was irritable.
"You would like this," said Anne, gently, as she drew Judy down beside her. "It's about the sea." She opened the despised book at the place where she had been reading when Judy plucked it out of her hand. "Listen."
Judy did listen, but with her sullen eyes staring out of the window and her shoulders hunched up aggressively. When Anne stopped however, she said: "Go on," and when the chapter was finished, she asked, "Who wrote that?"
"Robert Louis Stevenson. He was a lovely man, and he wrote lovely books, and he died, and they buried him in Samoa on the top of a mountain. He wrote some verses called 'Requiem.' I think you would like them, Judy."
"What are they?"
Anne quoted softly, her sweet little voice deep with feeling, and her blue eyes dark with emotion.
"'Under the wide and stormy sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie,
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
"'This be the verse you grave for me:
"Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor—home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill."'"
"'Home is the sailor, home from the sea—'" echoed Judy, under her breath. "How fine that he could say it like that, Anne. Tell me about him."