Judy looked at the little, bent figure in the faded purple calico.  “Oh, were you,” she said, indifferently, “I didn’t know that grandmother ever lived in the country before she was married.”

“She didn’t,” explained the little grandmother, “but I lived in town, and we went to our first parties together, and became engaged at the same time, and we both of us married men from this county and came up here—­”

“And lived happy ever after,” finished the Judge, with a smile on his fine old face, “like the people in your fairy books, Judy.”

“I don’t read fairy books,” said Judy, with a little curve of her upper lip.

“Oh,” said Anne, “don’t you, don’t you ever read them, Judy?”

There was such wonder, almost horror, in her tone that Judy laughed.  “Oh, I don’t read much,” she said.  “There is so much else to do, and books are a bore.”

Anne looked at her with a little puzzled stare.  “Don’t you like books—­really?” she asked, incredulously.

“I hate them,” said Judy calmly.

Before Anne could recover from the shock of such a statement, the Judge waved the young people away.

“Run along, run along,” he ordered, “I want to talk to Mrs. Batcheller, you show Judy around a bit, Anne.”

“Anne can set the table for lunch,” said the little grandmother.  “Of course you’ll stay, you and Judy.  Take Judy with you, Anne.”

Belinda and Becky Sharp followed the two girls into the dining-room.  Becky perched herself on the wide window-sill in the sunshine, and Belinda sat at Judy’s feet and blinked up at her.

“Belinda is awfully spoiled,” said Anne, to break the stiffness, as she spread the table with a thin old cloth, “but she is such a dear we can’t help it.”

Judy drew her skirts away from Belinda’s patting paw.  “I hate cats,” she said, with decision.

Anne’s lips set in a firm line, but she did not say anything.  Presently, however, she looked down at Belinda, who rubbed against the table leg, and as she met the affectionate glance of the cat’s green orbs, her own eyes said:  “I am not going to like her, Belinda,” and Belinda said, “Purr-up,” in polite acquiescence.

Judy had taken off her hat and coat, and she sat a slender white figure in the old rocker.  Around her eyes were dark shadows of weariness, and she was very pale.

“How good the air feels,” she murmured, and laid her head back against the cushion with a sigh.

Anne’s heart smote her.  “Aren’t you feeling well, Judy?” she asked, timidly.

“I’m never well,” Judy said, slowly.  “I’m tired, tired to death, Anne.”

Anne set the little blue bowls at the places, softly.  She had never felt tired in her life, nor sick.  “Wouldn’t you like a glass of milk?” she asked, “and not wait until lunch is ready?  It might do you good.”

“I hate milk,” said Judy.

Anne sat down helplessly and looked at the weary figure opposite.  “I am afraid you won’t have much for lunch,” she quavered, at last.  “We haven’t anything but bread and milk.”