“We are going to live at the Judge’s,” and at that Anne’s face changed from dismay to happiness, and she turned the kittens over to Belinda and flung her arms around the little old lady’s neck.

“Oh, am I really going to live with Judy?” she shrieked joyfully, “and you and Becky and Belinda—­oh, it’s too good to be true.”

“We really are,” said Mrs. Batcheller.  “The Judge and I had a long talk together, the day he came down, and he wants you to go away to school with Judy, and have me come and help Aunt Patterson to manage his house.  He says she is too feeble for so much care and that it will be an accommodation to him.”

But Mrs. Batcheller did not tell how the Judge had argued for hours to break down the barriers of pride which she had raised, and that he had finally won, because of his insistence that Anne must have the opportunities due one of her name and race.

“You are to go to Mrs. French’s school in Richmond, with Judy.  She is a gentlewoman, a Southerner, and an old friend of the Judge’s and mine, and we think it will be exactly the place for you two for a time.”

“It will be lovely,” cried little Anne, as the plans for her future were unfolded, but late that evening when she was ready to say “good night” she stood for a moment with her cheek against her grandmother’s soft old one.

“I shall miss you and the little gray house, grandmother,” she whispered, “I was hungry for you at The Breakers, although it was lovely there, and every one was so kind.”

“I shall miss you too, dear heart,” said the little grandmother, but she did not say how much, for she wanted Anne to go away happily, and she felt that she must not be selfish.

It was wonderful the planning that went on after that.  Anne spent many days at the big house in Fairfax, and each time she went it was a tenderer, dearer Judy that welcomed her.

“Father will stay with grandfather this winter.  I begged to stay, too, but they both think the schools here are not what I need, and so I am to go away,” she explained one morning as she and Anne were getting ready to go with a party of young people to pick goldenrod.

“Yes,” said Anne, putting her red reefer over her white dress, and admiring the effect.

“I hate school,” began Judy, sticking in a hat-pin viciously, then she stopped and laughed, “No, I don’t, either.  I don’t hate anything since father came back.”

“Not even cats?” asked Anne, demurely.

“No.  You know I love Belinda.”

“Nor picnics?”

“Not Fairfax ones.”

“Nor books?”

“I just love ’em—­thanks to you.”

“Nor—­nor boys—?” mischievously.

“Oh, do stop your questions,” and Judy put her hands over her ears.  But Anne persisted, “Nor boys, Judy?”

“I like Launcelot Bart—­and—­little Jimmie Jones, but I am not sure about Tommy Tolliver, Anne.”