“It was my chain with the pearl in it,” said Judy, “the one you gave mother.”

“Yes, and the rascals knew that the pearl was worth more than their whole outfit.”

Launcelot picked up his hat.  “I’m going to get it for you,” he said, “they can’t play any tricks like that.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Dr. Grennell, “you may need an older man to help you.  I think we can catch them with good horses.”

He bent over Judy before he went out.  “I wish you had come to me to have your fortune told,” he said, “I could have told you more than that old hag.”

“How?” asked Judy, puzzled.

“I should have told you that life is what we make it.  And your fortune will be good or bad as you live it.  It will not be a gipsy queen but Judy Jameson who shall decide the final issue.”

“But, doctor, she knew that I loved the sea, and—­and—­that I had lost some one that I loved—­”

“Oh, Judy,” Launcelot’s tone was impatient, “didn’t you tell that fellow that you were coming, and didn’t they have lots of time to find out about you.”

“I didn’t think of that.” said Judy meekly.

But as he went out of the door, she had a little flash of temper.

“If you had waited for me this morning, I shouldn’t have gone to the camp.”

“If you had been ready, I shouldn’t have left you,” was Launcelot’s reply, as his quiet eyes met Judy’s stormy ones.

“Oh,” she said, helplessly, and turned her gaze away, feeling that, as usual, he had the best of it.

And at that he whispered, “But I didn’t have a good time, Judy—­we—­we missed—­you—­” and he followed Dr. Grennell.

“And now,” said the little grandmother, “every one go home, and let me put this naughty girl to bed,” but she smiled at Judy as she said it, and the tired little maid put her arms around her, and buried her face in the motherly bosom, and shook in a sudden chill.

“I am afraid she is going to be ill,” said the Judge, anxiously, but the little grandmother tried to cheer him.

“She will be all right when she is rested,” she said, with a confidence she did not really feel.

But when Anne was fast asleep, and Judy lay awake, tossing restlessly in the gray light of the dawn, the little grandmother came in, in a flannel wrapper, with her curls tucked away under a hand-made lace nightcap.

“Can’t you sleep, dearie?” she whispered, as she sat down beside the bed.

“No.  I think, and think, and think—­about grandfather, and what a worry I am—­” and Judy gave a great sigh.

“He has so many cares.”  The little grandmother’s tone was gentle but it carried reproof, and Judy sat up and looked at her with troubled eyes.

“But I can’t help my nature,” she cried, tempestuously.  “I can’t bear to do things like other people, and when I get restless it seems as if I must go, and when I am angry I just have to say things—­”