Far down the road the train whistled.  Anne was surrounded by a little circle of sorrowing friends.  Even Launcelot was in the group, and Judy and the Judge stood alone.

“How they love her,” said Judy, with a little ache of envy in her heart.

“How she loves them,” said the wise old Judge.  “That is the secret, Judy.”

Amelia had brought Anne a box of fudge, Nannie a handkerchief made by her own stubby and patient fingers, and Launcelot made her happy with a book of fairy-tales, worn as to cover, but with rich things within—­a book of his that she had long coveted.

“By-by, little Anne,” he said, with a brotherly pat on her shoulder.  Then he shook hands with the Judge.  “I hope you will have a fine time, sir,” he said.  Then as he and Judy stood together for a moment, he handed her something wrapped carefully in tissue-paper.

“These are for you,” he said, a little awkwardly.

She unwound the paper and gave a little cry of delight.

“Violets, oh, Launcelot—­how did you know I loved them?”

“Guessed it—­you had them on your hat, and I liked that violet colored dress you wore.”

“And they are so sweet and fragrant.  Where could you get them this time of year?”

“In my little hothouse.  I forced them for you.”

But he did not tell her of the hours he had spent over them.

She was silent for a moment.  “It was lovely of you,” she said, at last, with a little flush and with a sweetness that she rarely revealed.  “It was lovely of you—­and I was so hateful just now.”

She reached out her hand to him, and his grasp was hearty, reassuring.  “It wouldn’t seem natural if you and I didn’t fuss a little, would it, Judy?” and then the train pulled in.

“All aboard!” shouted the conductor.

Anne and Judy went through the Pullman, and came out on the observation platform.

“Tell little grandmother to take good care of Belinda and Becky,” called Anne, whose heart yearned for her pets.

“And all of you come and see me,” cried Judy, hoping that she might win some of the love that was extended to Anne.

“We will,” they cried, “we will.”

“We will,” echoed Launcelot, with his eyes on the violets pinned on Judy’s gray coat, “we will if we have to sit up nights to do it.”

A flutter of handkerchiefs, a blur of gray coat and red one, a trail of blue smoke, and the train was gone, and life to those left in Fairfax seemed suddenly a monotonous blank.  As Launcelot turned away from the station, he ran into Dr. Grennell, who was rushing breathlessly up the steps.

“Has the train gone?” panted the minister.

“Yes.”

Dr. Grennell wiped his heated forehead.

“I am sorry for that,” he said, “I wanted especially to see the Judge.”

He had a letter in his hand, and he stood looking at it perplexedly.