"Little darling," murmured Hilda, "how I wish I had her with me here--she'd appreciate things so wonderfully. It is the greatest treat in the world to take Judy to see a really good picture--how her eyes shine in her dear face when she looks at it. My sweet little Judy, Jasper does not care for me to talk much to you, but I love you with all my heart and soul; it is the one drawback to my perfect happiness that I must be parted from you." Hilda rose as she spoke, and going over to a table on which her traveling-bag stood, opened it, pressed the spring on a certain lock, and taking out a little crumpled, stained letter, read the words written on it. "My darling Hilda [wrote the poor little scribe], this is to say that I love you better than anyone else in the world. I'll always go on loving you best of all. Please take a thousand million kisses, and never forget Judy. "P. S.--I'll pray for you every day and every night. I hope you will be very happy. I won't fret if you don't. This letter is packed with love. "JUDY." A step was heard along the passage; Hilda folded up the letter, slipped it back into its hiding place, and ran down the long room to meet her husband. "Well, my darling," he exclaimed; "the English mail has just come in, and here's a budget for you." "And a budget for you too, Jasper. What a heap of letters!" "Yes, and one of them is from Rivers. He rather wants me in London: there's a good case coming on at the Law Courts; he says I shall be counsel for it if I'm in town. What do you say to coming back to London on Saturday, Hilda?" "You know I shall be only too delighted; I am just pining to be home again. Do you think we could go down to the Rectory? I should so like to spend Sunday there." "My darling, what are you thinking of? I want to be in London, not in Hampshire. Now that I have got you, sweetheart, I must neglect no chance of work." Hilda's face turned slightly pale. "Of course, darling," she said, looking up sweetly at her tall husband; "but where are we to go on Saturday night? You spoke of going home." "And so we are going home, my love--or rather we are going toward home; but as we have not taken a house yet, we must spend a week with the Malverns when first we get to England. I will send a line to my aunt, and tell her to expect us on Saturday." Hilda said nothing more. She smothered the ghost of a sigh, and sitting down by the wood fire, which, notwithstanding the genial weather, was acceptable enough in their lofty room, began to open her letters. The Rectory budget was of course first attended to. It contained several inclosures--one from her father, which was short and principally occupied over a review of the last new theological book he had been reading, one from Aunt Marjorie, and one from Miss Mills. "None from Judy," said Hilda, in a voice of surprise; "she has only written to me once since we were married."