Belinda crooned a loving song, and tucked her pretty head under her little mistress’ chin.

“You’re a dear, Belinda,” said Anne, “and so is Becky,” and at the sound of her name the tame crow flew to Anne’s shoulder and gave her a pecking kiss.

“Oh, come on,” said Judy, impatiently, and the Judge lifted the shiny bag and put it on the front seat; then they waved their hands to the little grandmother and were off.

It was five miles to town, but the ride did not seem long to Anne.  She pointed out all the places of interest to Judy.

“That is where I go to school,” she said, as they passed a low white building at the crossroads, and later when the setting sun shone red and gold on two low glass hothouses set in the corner of a scraggly lawn, she explained their use to Judy.

“That’s where Launcelot Bart raises violets,” she said.

“What a funny name!” was Judy’s careless rejoinder.

“Launcelot is a funny boy,” said Anne, “but I think you would like him, Judy.”

“I hate boys,” said Judy, and settled back in the corner of the carriage with a bored air.

But Anne was eager in the defence of her friend.  “Launcelot isn’t like most boys,” she protested, “he is sixteen, and he lived abroad until his father lost all his money, and they had to come out here, and they were awfully poor until Launcelot began to raise violets, and now he is making lots of money.”

“Well, I don’t want to meet him,” said Judy, indifferently, “he is sure to be in the way—­all boys are in the way—­”

Anne did not talk much after that; but when they reached the Judge’s great red brick mansion, with the white pillars and with wistaria drooping in pale mauve clusters from the upper porch, she could not restrain her enthusiasm.

“What a lovely old place it is, Judy, what a lovely, lovely place.”

But Judy’s clenched fist beat against the cushions.  “No, it isn’t, it isn’t,” she declared in a tense tone, so low that the Judge could not hear, “it isn’t lovely.  It’s too big and dark and lonely, Anne—­and it isn’t lovely at all.”

As the Judge helped them out, there came over Anne suddenly a wave of homesickness.  Judy was so hard to get along with, and the Judge was so stately, and after Judy’s words, even the old mansion seemed to frown on her.  Back there in the quiet fields was the little gray house, back there was peace and love and contentment, and with all her heart she wished that she might fly to the shelter of the little grandmother’s welcoming arms.

Perhaps something of her feeling showed in her face, for as they went up-stairs, Judy said repentantly, “Don’t mind me, Anne.  I’m not a bit nice sometimes—­but—­but—­I was born that way, I guess, and I can’t help it.”

Anne smiled faintly.  She wondered what the little grandmother would have said to such a confession of weakness.  “There isn’t anything in this world that you can’t help,” the dear old lady would say, “and if you’re born with a bad temper, why, that’s all the more reason you should choose to live with a good one.”