The Judge’s garden was not a place of flaming flower beds and smooth clipped lawns open to the gaze of every passer-by.

It was a quiet spot.  A place where old-fashioned flowers bloomed modestly in retired corners, veiled from curious stares by a high hedge of aromatic box.

There was a fountain in the Judge’s garden, half-hidden by an encircling border of gold and purple fleur-de-lis, where a marble cupid rode gaily on the back of a bronze dolphin, from whose mouth spouted a stream of limpid water.

There was, too, in summer, a tangled wilderness of roses—­hundred-leaved ones, and little yellow ones, and crimson ones whose tall bushes topped the hedge, and great white ones that clung lovingly to the old stone wall that was the western barrier of the garden.  And there was a bed of myrtle, and another one of verbenas, over which the butterflies hovered on hot summer days, and another of pansies, and along the wall great clumps of valley lilies.  And at the end of the path was a lilac bush that the Judge’s wife had planted in the first days of bridal happiness.

For years it had been a lonely garden, as lonely as the old Judge’s heart—­for fifteen years, ever since the death of his wife, and the departure of his only son to sail the seas, the darkened windows of the old house had cast a shadow on the garden, a shadow that had fallen upon the Judge as he had walked there night after night in solitude.

But this evening as he sat on the bench under the lilac bush, a broad bar of golden light shone down upon the gay cupid and the sleeping flowers, and from the open window came the lilt of girlish laughter and the rippling strain of the “Spring Song,” as Judy’s fingers touched the keys of the little piano lightly.

Presently the music changed to a wild dashing strain.

“It’s a Spanish dance,” Judy explained to Anne.  She was swaying back and forth, keeping time with her body to the melodies that tinkled from her fingers.

“I can dance it, too,” she added.

“Oh, do dance it, Judy—­please,” cried Anne.  She was living in a sort of Arabian Nights’ dream.  Hitherto the girls that she had known had been demure and unaccomplished, so that Judy seemed a brilliant creature, fresh from fairyland.

With a crash the music stopped, as Judy jumped up from the bench, and went into the hall.

“Move the chairs back,” she directed over her shoulder, and Anne bustled about, and cleared a space in the centre of the polished floor.

In the meantime Judy bent over a great trunk in the hall.

“Oh, dear,” she cried, as she piled a bewildering array of things on the floor—­bright hued gowns, picturesque hats, and a miscellaneous collection of fans and ribbons.  “Oh, dear, of course they are at the very bottom.”

“They” proved to be a scarlet silk shawl and a pair of high-heeled scarlet slippers.  Judy wound the shawl about her in the Spanish manner, put on the high-heeled slippers, stuck an artificial red rose in her dark hair, and stepped forth as dashing a senorita as ever danced in old Seville.