That afternoon the Judge and Judy drove Anne home.

“It seems just like a dream,” said Anne, as they came in sight of the little gray house, with Belinda chasing butterflies through the clover, and Becky Sharp on the lookout in the plumtree.  “It seems just like a dream—­the good times and all, since Friday, Judy.”

“A good dream or a bad dream, Annekins?” asked Judy.

“Oh, a good one, a lovely dream, and you are the Princess in it, Judy,” said the adoring Anne.

“Well, you are the good little fairy godmother,” said Judy.  “Isn’t she good, grandfather?”

“Oh, I am not,” said Anne, greatly embarrassed at this overwhelming praise, “I am not—­”

“I never could have changed my hair,” affirmed Judy.

“What’s that?” asked the Judge.

“Oh, a little secret,” said Judy, smiling.  “Shall I tell him, Anne?”

“No, indeed,” Anne got very red, “no, indeed, Judy Jameson.”

There was a little pause, and then the Judge said: 

“I am sorry the picnic was such a failure.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t,” cried Judy, “it wasn’t a failure.”

Anne and the Judge stared at her.  “Did you enjoy it, Judy?” they asked in one breath.

“Of course I did,” said the calm young lady.

“But the rain,” said the Judge.

“That was exciting.”

“And your fainting—­” said Anne.

“Just an episode,” said Judy, wafting it away with a flirt of her finger-tips.

“And Amelia, and Nannie, and Tommy, did you like them?” asked Anne.

“Oh, Amelia is funny, and Nannie is clever, and Tommy is a curiosity.  Oh, yes, I liked them,” summed up Judy.

“And Launcelot—­”

Judy smiled an inscrutable smile, as she pulled her hat low over her sparkling eyes.

“He’s bossy,” she began, slowly, “and we are sure to quarrel if we see much of each other—­but he is interesting—­and I think I shall like him, Anne.”

And then Belinda and Becky discovered them, and made for their beloved mistress, and conversation on the picnic or any other topic was at an end.

CHAPTER IX

A BLUE MONDAY

There was a noisy scrambling in the vines outside of Anne’s window early on Monday morning, and the little maid opened her eyes to see Belinda’s white head peeping over the sill, and Belinda’s white paws holding on like grim death to the ledge.

“You darling,” cried Anne, sitting up, “come here,” and Belinda with a plaintive mew made one last effort, pulled herself into the room, and flew to her mistress’ arms.

“Where’s Becky?” asked Anne, wondering why the tame crow did not follow, for in spite of their constant feuds, the two pets were inseparable.

Belinda blinked sagely, while from a shadowy corner of the room came a sepulchral croak.

“Are you there, Becky?” called Anne, peering into the darkness, and with a flap and a flutter, Becky swooped from the top of the bookcase, where she had been perched for a half-hour, waiting for Anne to wake.