ng things. Judy had replied with rather less interest than usual. She was so anxious to hurry home, so fearful of being too late. Now it was all right. Hilda was still in the church, and, delightful--more than delightful--the discordant notes of the choir had ceased, and only the delicious sounds of the organ were borne on the breeze.
"Hilda is in the church," said Judy, pulling her governess by her sleeve. "Good-by, Miss Mills; good-by, Babs."
She rushed away, scarcely heeding her governess's voice as it called after her to be sure to be back at the Rectory in time for tea.
The church doors were still open, but the young man in the cricketing-flannels, who had stood in the porch when Judy had started on her walk, was no longer to be seen. The little girl stole into the quiet church on tip-toe, crept up to her sister Hilda's side, and lying down on the floor, laid her head on her sister's white dress.
Judy's lips kissed the hem of the dress two or three times; then she lay quiet, a