Her voice trembled a little over the “we,” for the sight of the little round table with its shining glass and silver had unnerved her.  But she had made up her mind to be brave, and in a minute she was herself again, leading the way to her room, which Anne was to share, and doing the honors of the house generally.

The Breakers was a cottage built half of stone and half of shingles.  It was roomy and comfortable, but not as magnificent as the Judge’s great mansion in Fairfax.  To Judy it was home, however, and when she came down again, she sighed blissfully as she dropped into a chair in front of the blazing fire.

“Listen, Anne,” she said to the little fair-haired girl, “listen—­do you hear them—­the wind and the waves?”

Anne was not quite sure that she liked it—­the moaning of the wind, and the ceaseless swish—­boom, crash of the waves.

“I wish it was daylight so that I could see the ocean,” she said, politely, “I think it must be lovely and blue and big—­”

“It is lovely now,” said Judy, and went to the window and drew back the curtain.

“Look out here, Anne—­”

As Anne looked out, the moon showed for an instant in a ragged sky and lighted up a wild waste of waters, whose white edge of foam ran up the beach half-way to the cottage.

“How high the waves are,” said little Anne.

“I have seen them higher than that,” exulted Judy.  “I have seen them so high that they seemed to tower above our roof.”

“Weren’t you afraid?”

“They couldn’t hurt me, and it was grand.”

“Supper is served, miss,” announced Perkins, coming in with a chafing-dish and a half-dozen fresh eggs on a silver tray.

“I thought you might like something hot, sir,” he said to the Judge with a supercilious glance at the cold collation which Mrs. Adams had provided, and with that he proceeded on the spot to make an omelette—­puffy, fluffy, and perfect.

It was a cozy scene—­the old butler in his white coat bending over the shining silver dish with the blue flame underneath.  The polished mahogany of the table giving out rich reflections as the ruddy light of the fire played over it.  The sparkling glass, the quaint old silver, Judy’s violets all fragrant and dewy in the center, and at the head of the table the Judge in a great armchair, and on each side the two girls, the dark-haired and the fair-haired, in white gowns and crisp ribbons.

But Judy ate nothing, although Perkins tempted her with various offers.

“I’m not a bit hungry,” she said, over and over again, and Anne, who was ravenous, felt positively greedy in the face of such daintiness.

“You are tired,” said the Judge at last, as Judy sat with her chin in her hand, gazing at a picture of her father which hung over the fireplace—­a full-length portrait in uniform.  “Go to bed, dear.”  And in spite of protests, as soon as Anne had finished her supper, he ordered them both to bed.