“Yes.  My father was in the navy.”

“Gee—­” Tommy drew near to this fascinating stranger.

“The next time you want to run away, you tell me,” said Judy, and sank back on the hay, “and I’ll help you.”

“But, Judy,” said horrified little Anne, “he isn’t going to run away any more—­he is going to stay here, and please his father and go to school—­aren’t you, Tommy?”

Tommy looked from the fair little girl to the dark thin one.  Hitherto Anne had been his ideal of gentle girlhood, but in Judy he now found a kindred spirit, a girl with a daring that more than matched his own—­a girl who loved the sea—­who knew about the sea—­who could tell him things.

“Aw—­I don’t know,” he said, uncertainly.  “I guess I can run away if I want to, Anne.”

“No, you can’t,” cried Anne.  “You ought not to encourage him, Judy.”

“I’m not encouraging him,” said Judy, but there was a wicked sparkle in her eyes.

Tommy saw it and swaggered a little.  He had returned home in the spirit of the prodigal son.  He was ready to be forgiven.  To eat of the fatted calf—­if he should be so lucky.  If not, to eat humble pie.  The sight of the familiar fields and roads had even brought tears to his eyes.  But now—!

“A fellow can’t be tied to a little old place like this all his life,” he said, toploftically, “you can’t expect it, Anne.”

“I don’t expect it,” said little Anne, quietly, “but if you had seen your mother after you ran away, Tommy—­”

At that Tommy lowered his head.

“I know—­” he stammered, huskily, “poor little mother.”

“Tell me about her,” he said.  And now he turned his back on the dark young lady on the hay.

But Launcelot’s voice broke in on Anne’s story.  He came in all wet and dripping.

“How’s Judy?” he began, then stopped and whistled.

“Hello,” he exclaimed, “hello, Bobby Shafto.”

“Oh, I say,” said Tommy, very red.

“I thought you were on the high seas by now,” said Launcelot.

“Well, I wanted to be,” said Tommy, resentfully.

“I am glad you’re back.  We have missed you awfully, old chap,” and Launcelot slapped him on the shoulder in hearty greeting.

“How is Judy?” he asked.

“Better, thank you,” said the young lady in the corner.  “Tommy was a tonic and came just in time.”

“Well, I am glad you found some kind of tonic.  Perkins didn’t have a thing but some mustard and red pepper, and I was feeling for you if we had to dose you with either of those.”

Judy started to laugh, but stopped suddenly.

“I forgot,” she said, “I am mad at you—­”

“Oh, no, you’re not.”

“But I am—­”

“Because I carried you across the field when you didn’t want me to?”

“Yes.”

“My child,” advised Launcelot, “don’t be silly.”

“Oh,” raged Judy, and turned her back to him.