"Hilda," said Judy, "I _thought_ it was only a bad dream--you never went away, did you?" "I am never going to leave you again, Judy," replied her sister; "never, never, as long as we both live. I vow--I promise--nothing shall part us, nothing except death." Hilda flung herself on her knees by the child's bed, and burst into hysterical sobs. CHAPTER XII. HILDA'S ENGAGEMENT RING. My heart is heavy for scorn, Mine eyes with impatient tears, But heaven looks blue through the cherry-blooms, And preaches away my fears. --EMILY PFEIFFER. Contrary to the doctor's fears, and in accordance with Hilda's hopes, Judy grew better. A weight had been lifted from her heart--her starved affections were nourished and soothed once more. Hilda scarcely ever left her room, and Hilda's presence was perpetual sunshine to the child. No one could possibly have behaved better than Quentyns did during this trying time. A certain feeling of compunction had visited him when he discovered how real Judy's illness was. He was assailed by a momentary pricking of his conscience, but as the little girl quickly grew better, and was soon pronounced by the doctor to be quite out of danger, it was but natural that an active man of the world like Quentyns should wish to return to town, should find the quiet Rectory simply unendurable, and also that he should wish to take his young wife with him. The Quentyns arrived at Staunton Rectory on a certain Wednesday, and on the following Sunday evening Quentyns thought the time had arrived for him to speak to Hilda about their return to town. He had not seen much of her during the days which had intervened, and he was obliged now to send Babs with a message to Judy's room to ask his wife to come to him. Hilda was reading aloud to Judy when Babs entered the room, and said in her important, calm way: "Jasper wants you, Hilda, and you are to go to him this minute." Hilda could read beautifully, and Judy had lain in a dream of rapture, listening to the beloved voice as it told the old story of Christian and his pilgrimage. Now the wistful, distressed look crept back into her face. "Never mind, dear," said Hilda, bending forward and kissing the child. "I shall not be long away." Quentyns was waiting for his wife in the large conservatory which opened into the drawing room. It was nearly empty of flowers and plants now, but was still a pleasant place to lounge about in. "Well, my love," he said in his pleasant tone. "Why, how pale you look, Hilda. I am not going to scold you, darling--oh, no, not for the world; but I haven't got too much of your society during these last few days. I don't blame you, and I am not jealous; but if you _could_ spare me half an hour now, there are one or two things I want to talk over with you."