“She is a queer little thing,” she said again, thoughtfully, and after a long pause, “but she is good—­”

She went to her wardrobe and took out a white dress.  Then she got out her hat and gloves and laid them on the bed.  And then she sat and looked at them, and then she began to dress.

And so it came about that Fairfax church had that morning two sensations.  In the first place Anne Batcheller came in late for the only time in her life, and in the second place, when the service was half over, a slender, distinguished maiden in a violet-wreathed white hat, slipped along the aisle, flashing a glance at Anne as she passed, and smiling at the delighted Judge as she entered the pew.

She fixed her eyes on the minister—­and straightway forgot Anne and the Judge and Fairfax, for the minister was reading the 107th Psalm, and the words that fell on Judy’s ears were pregnant with meaning to this daughter of a sailor—­“They that go down to the sea in ships—­”

Dr. Grennell was a plain man, a man of rugged exterior—­but he was a man of spiritual power—­and he knew his subject.  His father had been a sea-captain, and back of that were generations of Newfoundland fishermen—­men who went out in the glory of the morning to be lost in the mists of the evening—­men who worked while women wept—­men to whom this Psalm had been the song of hope—­women to whom it had been the song of comforting.

To Judy the sea meant her father.  It had taken him away, it would bring him back some day, and was not this man saying it, as he ended his sermon, “He bringeth them into their desired haven—­“?

Dr. Grennell had never seen Judy, but he knew the tragedy in the Judge’s life, and as she listened to him, Judy’s face told him who she was.

She went straight up to him after church.

“I am Judy Jameson,” she said, “and I want to tell you how much I liked the sermon.”

The doctor looked down into her moved young face.  “I am the son of a sailor,” he said, “and I love the sea—­”

“I love it—­” she said, with a catch of her breath, “and it is not cruel—­is it?”

“No—­” he began.  But with a man of his fiber the truth must out; “not always,” he amended, and took her hands in his, “not always—­”

“And men do come back,” she said, eagerly; “the one you told about in your sermon—­”

He saw the hope he had raised.  “Yes, men do come back—­but not always, Judy.”

Her lip quivered.  “Let me believe it,” she pleaded, and in that moment, Judy’s face foreshadowed the earnestness of the woman she was to be.  “Let me believe that my father will come some day—­”

“Indeed, I will,” said the doctor, and there was a mist in his eyes as he clasped her hand, “and you must let me be your friend, Judith, as I was your father’s.”

“I shall be glad—­” she said, simply, and then and there began a friendship that some day was to bring to Judy her greatest happiness.