“Well, this is my finish,” said Launcelot, moved to slang, by the intensity of his feelings.  “I thought it was bad enough to be cut out of going to college, but if you and Anne go away, I will give up.”

“No, you won’t,” said Judy, quickly.

“Why not?”

“Because I should be so disappointed in you, Launcelot.”

For a moment they looked at each other in silence.  The light wind came in through the open window and stirred the laces of Judy’s dress, and blew a wisp of dark hair across her earnest eyes, which shone with a depth of feeling that Launcelot had never seen there before, and as he looked, the boy was suddenly possessed with the spirit that animated the knights of old who yearned to prove themselves worthy of their ladies.

“Would you be disappointed, Judy?” he asked, very low.

“Yes,” she leaned forward, speaking eagerly.  “You—­you don’t know what this summer has meant to me, Launcelot.  I came here so miserable, so unhappy, and I found you and Anne—­and because you were both so brave when you have so many things to make life hard, I think it made me a little braver, and I could bear things better, because of you, and Anne, Launcelot.

“And so—­I want always to think of you as brave,” she went on, “I want to feel though there are cowards in the world, that you aren’t one; though there are boys who fail and boys who are not what they ought to be, that you are really brave and true and good, Launcelot—­always brave and true and good—­”

For a moment he could not speak, and then he said in a moved voice: 

“Do you really think that, Judy?”

“Really, Launcelot.”

“It helps me to know it—­it will help me all my life,” he said, simply, and for a moment his hand touched hers, as if a promise were given and taken.

All his life he carried the picture of her as she sat there with the silver light of the moon making a halo for her head—­and though after that she was many times her old tempestuous self, yet the vision of little St. Judith, as he named her then, stayed with him, and led him to the heights.

Judy went out to dinner on Dr. Grennell’s arm.  She looked very grown up with her long white dress, with her hair twisted high, with pearl sidecombs that had belonged to her grandmother, and with a bunch of violets—­Launcelot’s birthday gift to her, in her belt.

“How old are you, little lady?” asked the doctor, as they took their seats at the table.

“As old as I look,” flashing a demure glance.

“Then you are ten,” he decided, “in spite of your hair on top of your head.  Your eyes give you away.  They are child-eyes.”

“I hope she will always keep child-eyes,” said the Judge, who at the head of the table was serving the soup from an old-fashioned silver tureen, with Perkins at his elbow to pass the plates.  “I don’t want her to grow up.”

“I shall always be your little girl, grandfather,” and Judy nodded happily to him from the foot of the table, where she was taking Aunt Patterson’s place, “even when I am forty.”