“No,” he said, slowly, “I don’t think we ought to back down.  But I guess we shall have to.”

“Why?”

Launcelot’s eyes went to the sobbing figure in the little grandmother’s arms.

“We can’t make her unhappy,” he said in a low voice.

“Anne?”

“Yes.”

“Everything is spoiled now,” said Judy, chokingly, “everything.  And I took such an interest.  I think it’s mean—­mean—­mean—­”

Her voice grew very shrill, and her face was red.  Mrs. Batcheller started to speak, but the Judge raised his hand to stop the untimely lecture.

“Wait!” he said.

Something in his kind old face reminded Judy suddenly of the story he had told her just a week before—­of her grandmother and how she had conquered her temper.

With a strong effort she kept back the words of furious disappointment that she had intended to hurl at these weak-spirited people.  Then she whisked out of the room and down the hall, and presently Launcelot, who had followed her, came back laughing but mystified.

“She is walking around the oval in the garden,” he said, “as fast as she can go, and she won’t stop.”

The Judge slapped his hand on his knee.  “By George,” he said, with a sigh of relief, “she’s done it!” But when Anne asked him to explain, he shook his head.  “That’s a secret between Judy and me,” he said, “and I can’t tell it,” and over her head he smiled at Mrs. Batcheller, who knew the story, and had often laughed with Judy’s grandmother over it.

Judy came in, finally, rosy and breathless.

“Oh, invite your Miss Mary if you want to,” she panted, as she kissed the tear-streaked face.  “But don’t expect me to act too saint-like.  I am not made of the same stuff that you are, Anne.”

“You are a brick,” Launcelot pronounced later, when they were alone in the dining-room superintending the putting up of the stage; “it was harder for you to give up than for Anne.”

“No, I’m not a brick.” said Judy, a little wearily, “I am just hateful.  But I do try,” and his praise meant much to her, and helped her afterwards.

Miss Mary sat alone and discouraged when the note of invitation was handed to her.  She had sent letters to the school board and the other teachers, pleading “unavoidable postponement,” and now she was correcting papers with an aching head.

“Dear Miss Mary,”—­said Anne’s little note,—­“Please come to our party to-day.  It is going to be very nice, and we are sorry we set the same day as the school entertainment, and we won’t be happy if you are not here.  Please forgive us, and come.  Your affectionate scholar, Anne.”  And below the Judge had added, “I am anxious to supplement Anne’s invitation and apology and to say with her, ’Please forgive us and come.’”

“I won’t go,” said Miss Mary at first, bitterly.

But when she had read the little letter again, she changed her mind.