The dinner came to an end, and the ladies withdrew into the drawing room. Two little figures in white dresses were waiting to receive them. Babs trotted everywhere, and was universally admired, petted, and praised. Judy stood in the shadow behind one of the curtains and watched Hilda. "Come out, Judy, and be sociable," said her sister. "I don't want to talk. I am so happy here, Hilda," she replied. "I do like spiders when they are very, very fat," sounded Babs' voice across the room. "Oh, you droll little creature!" exclaimed a lady who sat near; "why, I should fly from a spider any distance." "Perhaps you like earwigs better," said Babs. "Earwigs, they are horrors; oh, you quaint, quaint little soul." Babs did not care to be called a quaint little soul. She trotted across the room and stood by Judy's side. "There's nobody at all funny here," she said in a whisper. "I wish I had my Kitty Tiddliwinks to play with; I don't care for fine ladies." "It is time for you to go to bed, Babs," said Judy. "No, it isn't. I am not going before you go. You always talk as if I were a baby, and I aren't. Judy, you might tell me now what it is to be engaged to be married." "No, I can't tell you now," said Judy; "the gentlemen are coming in, and we mustn't talk and interrupt. If you won't go to bed you must stay quiet. You know if Aunt Marjorie sees you she'll send you off at once; now they are going to sing; ah, that'll be jolly. You stay quiet, Babs, and listen." Four young men surrounded the piano. Jasper Quentyns was one; Hilda played the accompaniment. The four voices did ample justice to the beautiful glee--"Men were deceivers ever." The well-known words were applauded vigorously, the applause rose to an encore. Judy listened as if fascinated. "Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, But let them go ..." "Yes, that's the right thing to do," said Judy, turning round and fixing her bright eyes on Babs. "How funny you look," said Babs; "_you_ ought to go to bed." "Come, Barbara, what is this about?" said Aunt Marjorie's voice. "You up still--what can Miss Mills be thinking of? Now, little girls, it is nine o'clock, and you must both go away. Good-night, Babs dear; good-night, Judy." "Mayn't I say good-night to Hilda?" whispered Judy. "No, she's busy; run away this moment. Judy, if you question me I shall have to appeal to your father. Now, my loves, go." The little girls left the room, Babs complacently enough, Judy unwillingly. Babs was sleepy, and was very glad to lay her little head on her white pillow; but sleep was very far away from Judy's eyes.