She read Stevenson through in a week, and then began on Ruskin; for her thoughtful mind, starved so long of food that it needed, craved solid things, and Judy, who knew much of pictures and paintings, found in Ruskin’s theories a great deal that delighted and interested her.

“You’ll never get through,” said Anne, with a dismayed glance at the long rows of brown volumes high up on the shelves.  “I don’t like anything but stories, and Ruskin preaches awfully.”

“You ought to like him, then,” said Judy, wickedly, “you good little Anne.”

“Oh, don’t,” protested Anne, reproachfully, “don’t call me that, Judy.”

“Well, bad little Anne, then,” said Judy, composedly, from the top of the step-ladder, where she was examining the titles of the books and enjoying herself generally.

“You’re such a tease,” said Anne with a sigh.

“And you are so serious, little Annekins,” and Judy smiled down at her.

“I like Ruskin,” she announced, later.  “He’s a little hard to understand sometimes, but he knows a lot about art.  I am going to take up my drawing again.  He says that youth is the time to do things, and a girl ought not to fritter away her time.”

“No, indeed,” said Anne, virtuously.  “Only don’t get too tired, Judy.”

But it was Anne who was tired, before Judy’s enthusiasm wore itself out, for she was pressed into service as a model, and she served in turn as A Blind Girl, A Dancing Girl, A Greek Maiden, Rebecca at the Well, Marguerite, and Lorelei.

The last was an inspiration.  Anne perched on a rock around which the breakers dashed appropriately, with her hair down, and with filmy garments fluttering in the wind, combed her golden locks in the heat of the blazing sun.

“It’s broiling hot out here, Judy,” she complained as that indefatigable artist sat on the beach with her easel before her, in a blue work-apron, and with a dab of charcoal on her nose.

“Oh, you look just lovely, Anne,” Judy assured her, with the cruel indifference of genius.  “You’re just lovely.  I think this is the best I have done yet.  Think what a picture you will make.”

“Think how my nose will peel,” mourned Anne, forlornly.

  “Die schoenste Jungfrau sitzet
  Dort oben wunderbar,
  Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,
  Sie kaemmt ihr gold’nes Haar.”

sang Judy, whose residence abroad had made her familiar with many folk-songs.

  Sie kaemmt es mit gold’nem Kamme,
  Und singt ein Lied dabei;”

“—­Anne, you have the loveliest hair,” she interrupted her song to say.

But Anne was tired.  “I don’t think that the Lorelei was very nice,” she said, “to make men drown themselves just because she wants to comb her hair on a rock—­”

“She didn’t care,” said Judy, sagely.  “The men didn’t have to let their old boats be wrecked.”

“But her voice was so wonderful they just had to follow—­”