The girl shook her head until the blue ribbons on her straw hat fluttered in the wind, and blushed until her soft eyes were like forget-me-nots set in rose leaves.  She possessed a serene, luminous beauty, which became intensified beneath the gaze of the beholder.

“I have come back for good, now,” she answered in a serious sweetness of voice; “and I am out this afternoon looking up my Sunday-school class.  The children have scattered sadly.  You will let me have Tom again, won’t you?”

“Have Tom!  Why, you may have him every day and Sunday too—­the lucky scamp!  Ah, I only wish I were a boy again, with a soul worth saving and such a pair of eyes in search of it.”

The girl dimpled into a smile and flushed to her low, white forehead, on which the soft hair was smoothly parted before it broke into sunny curls about the temples.  She exhaled an atmosphere of gentleness mixed with a saintly coquetry, which produced an impression at once human and divine, such as one receives from the sight of a rose in a Bible or a curl in the hair of a saint.  The judge looked at her warmly, sighing half happily, half regretfully.

“And to think that the young rogues don’t realise their blessings,” he said.  “There’s not one of them that wouldn’t rather be off fishing than learn his catechism.  Ah, in my day things were different—­things were different.”

“Were you very pious, sir?” asked the girl with a flash of laughter.

The judge shook his stick playfully.

“I can’t tell tales,” he answered, “but in my day we should have taken more than the catechism at your bidding, my dear.  When your father was courting your mother—­and she was like you, though she hadn’t your eyes, or your face, for that matter—­he went into her Bible class, though he was at least five and twenty and the others were small boys under ten.  She was a sad flirt, and she led him a dance.”

“He liked it,” said the girl.  “But, if you will give my message to Tom, I won’t come in.  I am looking for Dudley Webb, and I see his mother at her gate.  Good-bye!  Be sure and tell Tom to come Sunday.”

She nodded brightly, lifted her muslin skirts, and recrossed the street.  The judge watched her until the flutter of her white dress vanished down the lane of maples; then he turned to speak to the occupants of a carriage that had drawn up to the sidewalk.

The vehicle was of an old-fashioned make, bare of varnish, with rickety, mud-splashed wheels and rusty springs.  It was drawn by an ill-matched pair of horses and driven by a lame coloured boy, who carried a peeled hickory branch for a whip.

“Ah, General Battle,” said the judge to a stout gentleman with a red face and an expansive shirt front from which the collar had wilted away; “fine afternoon!  Is that Eugenia?” to a little girl of seven or eight years, with a puppy of the pointer breed in her arms, and “How are you, Sampson?” to the coloured driver.